The Sixth Commandment
by loveonspeedial
Summary: In a world at war, one woman was at war with herself.
1. Bang Bang

**A/N:** This one has been in my head for a while, but I figured I'd finish one before I started another. And if anyone thought there was a lot of angst in Such Great Heights, then you're in for a rollercoaster ride here. Enjoy a taste of things to come and let me know what you think! (www . youtube . com/watch?v=T5Xl0Qry-hA)

**Disclaimer (for current and all future installments): **I do not own Band of Brothers (and mean no disrespect).

Inspired by Nancy Sinatra and various Quentin Tarantino films**

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**

**I. Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)  
**_he wore black and i wore white  
he would always win the fight_

No one had warned her about men like Parker Hollis.

She had been sent to the finest schools in New England, presented to society at debutante balls, and generally catered to for the first twenty-two years of her life… but everyone had hid what hell was like and no one bothered to mention men like Parker Hollis.

And that was how she ended up where she was… lying, bloody and broken, on the floor of the precious Atlanta home that she hadn't wanted in the first place. Her husband stood above her with his hands closed into fists, a spot of red matting his blonde hair. It was a stance of dominance, of power, as if he needed to make his point any clearer. But then…

A gunshot rang out. A body hit the floor. Parker Hollis, mercantile extraordinaire and entrepreneur, took his last jagged gasps of peach-scented air and whispered the name of the woman he had tortured for far too long.

"Lorena…"


	2. Girl From the North Country

**A/N: **Welcome to the first real chapter. It's short, I know. I'll work up to the 3000-4000 word chapters again.  
(www . youtube . com/watch?v=jXweUdZOrb8)

Inspired by Bob Dylan and red high heels

* * *

**II. Girl From the North Country  
**_remember me to the one who lives there  
for she once was a true love of mine_

Aldbourne, England  
1944

After D-Day, the home front buzzed with talks of victory and Allied advances. Newspaper headlines boasted success for the brave boys in fatigues and the radio programs sent encouraging messages over the airwaves. The media circuits had everyone convinced that the war would soon be over and that their sons and husbands and brothers would be returning to them. But the soldiers that had survived June 6th and were still stationed in Europe knew that the war had only begun. True, they had weakened the Krauts, but those Germans still had some fight left. _Don't get hit in the face when Gerry throws in the sponge._

To make matters worse, the replacements for the men they had lost were swarming in like locusts. Inexperienced, clumsy, and in awe of the veterans; they were often more trouble than they were worth. Most of them found friends amongst themselves since the original soldiers didn't want to get too close to them… those kids would die off faster than their buddies did.

And the replacements weren't the only plague that was brought upon the Army. Since the America joined the great fight, war correspondents from sea to shining sea were shoved into the fold. Some were big shot reporters who longed for the adventure of covering warfare; others were pathetic staff writers, the lowest on the journalistic totem pole, whose editors simply wanted them gone… out of sight, out of mind. They came from the _New York Times, the New York Post, the Miami Herald, the Hartford Courant, the Washington Post, the Tucson Citizen, the Boston Globe, the Sacramento Bee, the Des Moines Register, the Oklahoman, the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, the Rocky Mountain News_, and many more. They filed in like ants at a picnic, feeding on the energy around them.

In Aldbourne, the 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment awaited the arrival of three correspondents: two men, from the _Niagara Falls Gazette_ and the _Los Angeles Times_, and one woman from the _Atlanta Constitution_. Each member of the nine companies prayed for God to bless them with the female addition, silently promising that her assured femininity would calm them all to absolute piety… that was, until they realized that Colonel Robert Sink, commanding officer of the regiment, would be the one to designate which reporter would go where. She was definitely going to Easy Company.

Captain Lewis Nixon, intelligence officer for 2nd Battalion, also knew this. The New Yorker, a photojournalist named Bud Corbin, was sent to First; the Californian, a nobody who had only published six articles in his whole eight years of his career, was assigned to Third; and the Southerner, Lorena Carlyle, went to Second. A mixture of emotions overcame the battered company. They were thrilled at the prospect of having something to admire on a daily basis, but also terrified that she would only get in the way during combat. Captain Dick Winters, their respected CO, had told them to think of her as another challenge, one that they could undoubtedly handle. Of course, he hadn't met her just yet…

* * *

The cool August air rushed through Lorena's ebony-colored hair, or at least what was left of it after she had her long curls shorn off and styled into a wavy bob. Her angular face remained calm and cool as she rode in the passenger seat of a jeep that rumbled through the English countryside. It was surreal to be in Europe again, especially since this time it was under very different circumstances. Her father and her brother were not there to hold her hand and she was certainly not going to be staying in any posh hotels in the capitals. This time, she would have a 'C' emblazoned on an field green uniform and it would be far from a summer vacation.

As the sounds of other vehicles pervaded her ears, she began to straighten up further, finally taking a breath. Her editor had told her that she had to be professional; she was there to report, not sightsee or fraternize. But old Joe McGalahan was practically reading from a script. He knew her better than that. She had always been taught to complete whatever task she had been given to the best of her ability and to do it with a sense of decorum. The undertaking of roaming across Europe with a bunch of wild paratroopers would be treated no differently. Her job was to report, to observe… it was her specialty.

The jeep came to a stop in front of 2nd Battalion headquarters, where a dark haired man stood, apparently waiting for her. Lorena watched the smoke from his cigarette, secure between his lips, rise and swirl around his eyes, which were squinted against the high sun. When she turned to step down from the vehicle, he threw the Lucky Strike to the ground, put out the burning end with the toe of his boot, and offered his hand to her. Lorena stared at it, confused, but accepted anyway.

"Miss Carlyle, I assume," he said, inhaling a veiled aroma of raspberries and caramel.

"You assume right," she said.

He stared at her, puzzled. Nixon had expected a sweet, warm southern accent, something that might remind him of honey dripping from a jar. Instead, though, he found that she didn't sound very different from him, except for the remnants of Boston that still lingered deep within her northern dialect.

"And you are?" she asked dryly.

"Captain Lewis Nixon, Battalion S-2. Pleased to meet you, Miss Carlyle," he said, extending a hand for her to shake in a grip that was surprisingly firm and confident.

"Thank you, Captain. Oh, and it's Lorena," she told him.

He nodded and led her through to where Dick sat in an office, poured over a typewriter and several reports that he had finally finished. The sunlight that streamed through the window made his bright red hair gleam and appeared to set a spotlight on the steaming cup of coffee that rested on the desk. He hated writing reports… where in the CO job description had, "Lots and lots of report writing," been listed? A few loud knocks rattled the door just as Dick slumped further in his chair and cracked his knuckles.

"Enter," he said. Whatever enthusiasm he had had from his morning exercise was gone.

Nixon held the door open as Lorena sauntered in, her heels clicking against the dark wooden floors. Dick stood as soon as he saw her, not wanting to portray the wrong image to the woman of the press.

"Dick, this is Lorena Carlyle, our war correspondent," he said, handing over a file.

Dick went to shake her hand as well. "It's a pleasure to see you again."

Lorena gave a small forced smile, her delicately curved lips barely turning upward in the corners. "No, Captain Winters, the pleasure is all mine."

"Again?" Nixon asked.

"I covered the 2nd Battalion march, Captain. The former Lieutenant and I spoke at length about the parachute infantry. I must say, I'm glad to hear that you've been promoted to commanding officer. That other man was rather harsh."

"Yes, he was."

They both sat and began to smooth out invisible imperfections. Dick turned his attention to the file in front of him and opened to reveal the life of Lorena Carlyle. Her expression remained impassive, even though she felt as though she were about to internally combust. There were things among those papers that she would have rather ignored.

"It says here you were born in Boston, Massachusetts. And that you studied at Radcliffe College. You hear that, Nix. A rival," Dick said, ignoring the fact that the woman across from him was mentally dissecting him.

He was tall. Tall, but strong. Lorena could tell by the muscles in his hands that underneath all of those layers was a multitude of lean strength, which could easily snap another human being in half. But then she watched the way he held the papers, the way he picked objects up and moved them around. The only way he could ever kill someone would be from a distance, with a gun. None of that up-close-and-personal business. No, Lorena knew that he was incapable of anything that involved the term, "in cold blood." The first time she met him, she wasn't as keen on such qualities. Back then, she was still learning how to really tell the difference between a normal person and a violent sociopath.

Nixon, unlike Winters, he had a look in his eyes, something that Lorena didn't trust. But his hands were too soft to be dangerous. He was from the same world she had known most of her life. He had the face and the build of a man that had been surrounded by business and high society, brandy and cigars, tuxedos and ball gowns. She had known a million men like him, just as he had known thousands of women like her.

"You're a Yale man?" she asked, giving her the perfect excuse to watch his movements.

"Yeah," he said. "I'm guessing you're tied to a Harvard man?"

Lorena rubbed her bare ring finger with her thumb. "I used to be."

"Yeah, a Parker Hollis. It says here he's deceased. Oh," Dick said, looking up from the paper. _Hollis. _He suddenly remembered the other places that he knew her from. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Well, then you appear to be the only one," she said, void of emotion.

"May I ask what happened?"

Dick shot Nixon a look of warning. He had been raised on the tradition of not asking women certain questions: how old they were, what they weighed, and how they became widows. If they wanted to volunteer that information, then that was their decision, but if they did not…_You mean you haven't heard this story before?_

"He was killed. Shot through the chest," Lorena answered.

She didn't believe in sugarcoating the facts. That was why she became a journalist. That was why McGalahan gave her the job as official war correspondent for the Atlanta Constitution. That was why she had very few friends left in her life. _You mean that you haven't heard this story before? _

"He was… what?" Nixon said, stumbling over the information that she had just dumped out.

What worried him the most was how matter-of-factly it came out. Normal people were less frank about talking about their dead spouses. Normal people didn't say things like that with such an even tone.

"He was shot through the chest. About a year ago, actually."

The two men looked at each other, and then back at her. Dick knew that Nixon wouldn't drop the subject, and Nixon knew that that's all Dick would want him to do, but there were at least eighteen more questions left before he'd hit the twenty limit.

"By who?"

Lorena looked at him, straight in the eyes, probably for the first time since she had arrived, by his estimations. "Why do you read that lovely slip of paper and find out for yourself?" she challenged.

Nixon blinked, taken aback by her tone. With a sudden frown, he trudged over to the desk and took the folder in his hands. There was nothing he hated more than being in the dark on things, especially when those things involved dead Harvard graduates and a woman who came from a wealthy family. He scanned and flipped, tearing through the folder as though he were a kid on Christmas. _Boston. LC Glass Company. Italian. _The words leapt out at him. _Deceased. Acquitted. Self defense._

"Self defense?"

She nodded. "Yes, and I have four scars, a cracked rib, and a second break in my nose to prove it. It was a very popular story, Captain Nixon. I never imagined that I'd ever run into a man with so much obvious intelligence who was so ill-informed. Yes, Captain, I did kill my husband, out of pure self-defense."

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reviews are love.


	3. Crash Into Me

**A/N:** Thank you to all that have reviewed. I'm sending good vibes to you all!  
(www . youtube . com/watch?v=k7in-9E3ImQ)

Inspired by Dave Matthews Band and extratasty(dot)com.

* * *

**III. Crash Into Me  
**_who's got their claws in you my friend?  
into your heart i'll beat again._**  
**

Lorena had never really appreciated how dim the lights were in bars. In fact, sometimes she even found it to be a nuisance, but as she slid up to the counter and sat down, she found it ironically perfect. She wanted to blend into the darkness. She wanted to drink away every thought in her head. She'd start fresh the next day.

"Scotch and soda, please."

No stranger had ever asked about Parker Hollis. Some people knew who did it. Some people didn't care. They heard "shot in the chest" and didn't want to know anymore. Lorena should have known that Captain Nixon would be the one to inquire further… S-2 and probing questions; they went together like Bacardi and Coca-Cola.

Her flaw, she knew, was her inability to stop her mouth from moving before the admittance came out. And the fact that she didn't care who knew anymore. It had been in the papers all along the East Coast, where her family's name was especially well known. It had traveled across the radio airwaves, so people in Oregon and Colorado could hear of the poor little rich girl who had been acquitted of murder. It was everywhere… except Europe. Because in Europe, Lorena knew, her problems were trivial, and in war, she would blend right in.

She rested her elbows on the bar top and let her head slip into her hands. It had only been twelve hours since her arrival, most of which she had slept away. They had her quartering with an elderly couple that lived above their bakery, which filled the rooms with the convivial aromas of freshly baked bread and pastries. But after the meeting, she hadn't felt much like talking or drinking tea and snacking on cookies. All Lorena had wanted was to scribble a few lines out and then rest… only the latter was accomplished.

The barkeep, a portly man in his early forties, placed the glass down in front of her with a knowing smile. Clearly, he had seen her type in there before. She did, after all, fit the bill of a woman who had her life together on the surface, but underneath it all… volcanic eruptions and crumbling cliffs, dynamite explosions and broken glass. She was a bundle of organs and blood and skin, a mess.

And she was in such a state that she was oblivious to the pairs of eyes that were on her. The men, though, watched her like a sparkly new toy, one with full breasts and bold, Italian features on a freckled, Celtic face. They talked amongst themselves, waiting it out before they made their moves.

"You sure that's her?" Sergeant Bill Guarnere asked, nudging at the other men around him.

"I don't know. When I talked to Captain Nixon, he said that she was crazy," Lieutenant Buck Compton said, the faint light shining on his pale blue eyes and bright, blonde hair. "She just looks lost."

"Ain't all broads crazy?" Guarnere joked.

"That one's gotta be to be here. I mean, who volunteers for this shit. Oh, wait…" said George Luz, the radio man for Easy, as he lit another cigarette.

"I heard she killed a man," a new kid, 'Babe' Heffron of South Philly, said. "She oughta get with Speirs. They can swap stories."

"She did," said Johnny Martin, an original Toccoa man. "It was in the papers."

The men watched her as she sipped from her glass, her eyes trained forward. She could suddenly feel the looks she was getting, the scrutinizing glances. She expected it, really. At Chilton-Foliat, one of the things that every female correspondent had been told was that many of the men longed for the comforts of home, particularly their beds and the women in them. They were going to get a lot of attention, sometimes more than they'd be used to.

For Lorena, this was an absolute fact. Since becoming a widow and a murderess, she had remained, needless to say, on the outskirts of the Atlanta social circles. She got up in the morning, went to work, chased down a few stories, went home, ate dinner, drank a glass of wine, fed the cat, and went to bed. Naturally, there were times in the middle of her day when she would stop for a coffee, meet someone who found her attractive, but it was only ever a meeting. She'd learn his name, he would learn hers, and that would be the end of things. Men hardly called on a woman who was known for any form of mental instability.

Suddenly, her senses were hit with the smell of a familiar aftershave. It was the kind that her brother had used. It was warm and welcoming with a hint of underlying masculinity. She associated it with suits and ties and books and… happiness. When she turned to her left, though, she didn't find her older brother, but another man… one who had filled a uniform with the glow of the Ivy League.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, I hate to bother you, but are you Lorena Carlyle?"

Lorena met his gaze with an unintentionally hard stare. Whatever softness her dark eyes once had disappeared long ago.

"I am. Why do you ask?"

"Well, I'm a fan of your work, Ms. Holl—Carlyle," the young man said, pretending to be unaware of what her accusatory tone meant to say.

"My work?" Lorena was too surprised to pay much attention to the fact that he stumbled over her last name. "What's your name, Private?"

"David Webster, Miss Carlyle."

Private Webster, although he hadn't graduated from Harvard yet, knew a great deal of things about the world. He knew that Copernicus developed the theory of heliocentricity, that Homer wrote _The Iliad_, that English was a Germanic language, and that the woman sitting on the bar stool in front of him was of the great Boston Carlyles, owners of LC Glass Company.

Her grandfather, a Scottish-Irish immigrant, had been a lowly factory worker when he first came to the United States in 1864. After marrying one of the girls that worked on the assembly line, Liam Carlyle took the tiny amount of knowledge that he had gained about the glass industry and began his own company: LC Glass Co. By the time his son, Charles, took over the business in 1897, it was an empire, even surpassing that of Liam's former employer. The company upheld a strong family-oriented image until 1915 when forty-year-old Charles G. Carlyle married nineteen-year-old Lilla Fanciullo, who had only been living in Boston for a year. The good Carlyle name, spoiled by scandal, never fully recovered. Not even when Charles retired in 1938 and the responsibility went to Lorenzo Carlyle, the multi-talented male heir to the family fortune and Lorena's brother. Then came the death of Parker Hollis, Esq. in 1943, which ultimately sealed the fate of the business. The war effort, and both Lorenzo and Lorena's involvement, was the only thing that had saved them.

"And your father was my microeconomics professor one semester last year," he said.

"I'm sorry to hear that. He can be a bit of a tyrant when it comes to money and business. Especially to a Literature major."

Webster's eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "How'd you know?"

Lorena took a sip of her scotch. "You read the articles I wrote? And that's how you know my name?"

He nodded.

"Enough said."

"The Constitution was one of the only newspapers we got on the bases and I remembered you from the march."

"The march," said Lorena with a smirk. "I thought you looked familiar."

In December 1942, while transferring to Ft. Bragg from Camp Toccoa, 2nd Battalion force marched with full field kits and weapons to Atlanta. They created a stir throughout much of the state as they traveled 120 miles through the cold, wet Southern countryside, along the roads and in the woods. Photographers followed them in cars. Residents watched, awestruck, as the boys in olive drab tramped through their land. Lorena's editor sent her out to them one cold day, told her to travel with them. _This war's going to pick up more soon and I might need to send someone over there. Don't let me down, Hollis. _So, she dressed warmly in her long khaki pants and tweed jacket, and traveled east to where the men were marching in a perfect line along the side of the road. When they camped for the night, she took notes and typed out bits and pieces of the story on her portable typewriter. She slept in the car, the one that Parker had bought to apologize for the gash his belt buckle left on her head, for a few days while they camped behind the trees and hurried back to Atlanta to watch as Easy Company led the three-company parade through the capital city.

There were a few faces that had stuck with her, Webster's included, and a man from D Company, though she never caught his name. All she could remember about him, two years later, was a strong jaw and a crooked smile that she saw only once while she hiked between the camps.

"You got a lot of attention for that, didn't you, Miss Carlyle?" Webster asked.

The boy wasn't stupid. Lorena knew this for a fact. Anyone that survived one of Father's classes was intelligent; undeniably so, in fact. She sensed that he was an opportunist, but she didn't dare call him on it. If he wasn't going to bring it up, neither was she.

"Lorena, please, Private Webster." She finished the rest of her scotch. "My editor had mentioned something about a Pulitzer Prize, but I think he was just baiting me."

"It ruined the Journal, though," Webster said with a grin.

She allowed a smile to play across her lips. "You bet it did. And it's exactly what they deserved after boasting about having a best-selling novelist on staff for so long."

Webster laughed and stuffed his hands further in his pockets. It was also what they deserved for calling her a Yankee murderer, he thought. Between his body language and the sudden tension that occurred, Lorena knew that he wasn't speaking out of some uncommon consideration for her feelings. She felt sorry for him, because it was not something she would have done for him. She had lost the capacity to filter her thoughts and almost resented other people for being able to.

"Did you ever read the exposè that Sebastian Greene wrote for them about me?" she asked, trying to prove that she wasn't afraid of it.

"Six grammatical errors. I loved the response you did. A letter to the editor, wasn't it?"

"Yes," she said, smiling wider. "He also misspelled the names of my mother and father-in-law."

"Didn't your brother sue him for libel?"

"And sent a couple of guys that he knows from the North End of Boston to smash his car in with baseball bats, but Greene couldn't prove anything. It's one of the benefits of paying in cash."

Lorena laughed at the memory. A postcard came for her the same day that the news hit the papers. _Sorella mia, I brought Fenway Park to you._

A sergeant, who Lorena recognized as Carwood Lipton from West Virginia, quieted the pub down. He spoke briefly. The company was moving out soon. Gloom came over the once lively men and the lights seemed to have dimmed once more.

"Well, Lorena," Webster said, straightening his jacket. "It was nice to finally meet you."

"You too, David," she said. "You too."

* * *

Lorena, drunk and tired, stumbled out of the pub hours later. The moon lit the way and cast gray shadows on the ground, turning into ghostly figures in her intoxicated eyes. Lorena smiled vaguely at the shapes and laughed to herself. The only things that never went blurry when she would try to drink herself numb were the faded scars on her hands, the dull lines that danced across her knuckles. _Lorena… Lorena, darling…I want you to meet someone. This is Parker Hollis. He's one of my best students this semester. All the way from Atlanta. Mr. Hollis, this is my daughter, Lorena…_She could still feel the sting of the belt as it went across her back, creating deep gashes in her skin and her soul. _Hello Miss Carlyle. My, my! You're more beautiful than I imagined you would be…_

Then, quite suddenly, she was falling after crashing into something hard and firm. From out of nowhere, or what Lorena thought was nowhere, a pair of hands shot out and wrapped around the top of her arms to pull her back onto her feet. Shocked by the swiftness of the motion, Lorena looked around, dazed and confused.

"It isn't safe for a woman to be wandering the streets like this so late," a steady voice said to her. "Especially not an American journalist."

Lorena pried her gaze from the bars on her rescuer's collar and looked up at his face, only to be met with a pair of eyes, lit up by the burning of a cigarette. She got the feeling that she had known him before, in a past life perhaps. She was finally speechless… almost.

"No, definitely not," she slurred. "My apologies, Lieutenant…" She read the name printed on his uniform. "Speirs."

Lt. Ronald Speirs stared down at the swaying woman and the expression on her oval face. Her eyes, dark and starry as the sky above them, were wide as they tried to focus and study him through the haze of the liquor she had consumed. A deep silver scar cut into her hairline and her Grecian nose had clearly been broken. Everything about her spelled trouble.

"I've seen you somewhere before," she said. "Am I dreaming again?"

_So much trouble. _The first time he had ever seen Lorena, she was traipsing through the woods to another group of soldiers, chewing on the end of a pen. There was a fresh scab on her forehead, hidden beneath a few strategically-placed locks of hair, and a small welt on her hand. Most people wouldn't have bothered to notice. Any woman that slept in a car and walked along the highways with a battalion of paratroopers wasn't exactly the type that would be without a few scratches, but Speirs saw the way that she pulled her sleeve over the raised flesh and continuously fixed her black curls over her other wound. Therefore, only months later, when the story of a woman who had been set free after killing her husband broke, Speirs was the only man in the 2nd Battalion who wasn't the least bit surprised. He smirked at her.

"No, you're not."

Lorena then remembered who he was: the man from D Company. She sighed, too drunk to be embarrassed.

"I'll just be on my way now," she said as soon as Speirs' grip loosened on her. "Thank you for catching me."

Speirs listened and watched as she moseyed toward the bakery, singing lightly. _Si maritau Rosa _The melody intertwined with her uneven footsteps and the ghostly shadow that followed her looked like it was dancing. _Saridda e Phippinedda _He could feel his chest tighten and he was unsure as to why. _E iu ca sugnu bedda _She must, he thought, be a witch. _Mi vogghiu mariti__à_

As he began to walk away, a glint of something on the ground caught his eye. Speirs bent down and picked up a silver pen, engraved with the initials L.G.C. He smiled, almost laughing to himself.

He had his excuse to see her again.

* * *

reviews are love.


	4. All the Madmen

**A/N: **(Almost) brand new! (www . youtube . com/watch?v=jb7Xdu7STx8)

Inspired by David Bowie and massive amounts of Starbucks coffee

* * *

**IV. All the Madmen  
**_and i'd rather play here with all the madmen  
for i'm quite content they're all as sane as me_**  
**

"As you can see," Dick said, pointing to the boards behind him, "This is called Operation: Market Garden. In terms of Airborne divisions involved, this one's even bigger than Normandy. We're dropping deep into occupied Holland."

Lorena scribbled in her notebook and took long drags of her cigarette. Her almost permanent expression of insouciance blended perfectly with the rest of the crowd and hid the throbbing that still lingered due to a three-day hangover. She wanted to vow that she'd never drink like that ever again, but she refused to lie. Sometimes a girl needed to get terribly drunk to remind herself of why hitting the bottle day in and day out was a useless endeavor: eventually, the booze would dry up and it wasn't worth the headache.

"The Allied objective is to take this road, between Eindhoven and Arnhem, so the two British Armored divisions can move up it toward Arnhem. Our job is going to be to liberate Eindhoven. Stay there, wait for the tanks."

Captain Nixon stepped forward and took over the briefing. When his eyes found Lorena's, he was surprised that she didn't look away. He hated how she never moved, never faltered, even though he knew she must have had a splitting headache. The story of the journalist's little drinking binge had blown through Easy Company like a tornado. They said she was a quiet drunk, didn't make any trouble when the last call came. The more scandalous news was her literal run in with Lt. Ronald Speirs of Dog Company later that night.

One of the many rumors that had circulated about Speirs was of him shooting his own man for being intoxicated… or because he wasn't on night duty. No one knew for sure. Either way, Speirs neither confirmed nor denied the tale, so, naturally, everyone assumed it was true. There were plenty of questions as to why he spared her and just as many new stories, all of which originated the same way that anything did: someone heard about it from someone who was there who it heard about it from someone else. It was a fact that sources in the Army weren't terribly reliable.

"The entire European advance has been put on hold to allocate resources for this operation. It's Montgomery's personal plan and we'll be under British command. The good news is, if this works, these tanks will be over the Rhine and into Germany. It could end the war and get us home by Christmas. It'll be a daytime jump. Intelligence doesn't expect much opposition. They think the Krauts in Holland are mostly kids and old men, and we should take them by surprise. In any case, say goodbye to England. I don't think they're going to call this one off."

When the briefing ended, Lorena was still writing away, her replacement pen filling page after page with a delicate, but barely-legible cursive. _Market Garden, if all goes as planned, should have the men in the ETO home by the holiday season. To others across the nation, this may seem like a remarkable feat, but for many in Atlanta, the tales of the paratroopers' rigorous training and irrefutable courage and strength are enough to suggest that it is, in fact, possible. _She was so engrossed in her work that she didn't notice the man that entered the nearly empty room.

"Miss Carlyle," said voice, husky and strong.

Lorena's breath hitched in her throat and her blood rushed to her cheeks. She winced.

Ronald Speirs had fixed his cold stare on Lorena once more. A year ago, she would have shrank from him like a dog, but all of Lorena's bruises had disappeared and her cuts had healed and she no longer wilted under the contemptuous gaze of a man. Instead, she returned the favor and looked into his eyes with an equal intensity and remoteness.

"Lieutenant Speirs, we meet again," Lorena said.

"Yes, Miss Carlyle. We do."

"It's Lorena, Lieutenant." She hated the pomposity of _Miss Carlyle. _It reminded her too much of mint juleps and magnolias.

Speirs nodded silently, catching a glimpse of the scars at the base of her neck. "You have a good singing voice, and in Italian nonetheless."

"And drunk," she said. "But I almost always sound better when I'm drunk. The whole lack of inhibitions, I think."

"Where'd you learn it?" he asked, his posture still rigid.

She wasn't sure if he meant it, but he certainly seemed like the type to want to make her feel uncomfortable and force her into a submissive position. Either way, she wasn't going to relax. Instead, she stood straighter before answering. "My Sicilian mother. My brother and I were both fluent before she died."

"I assume, then, that your brother's on the Italian front?"

"As a translator and a medic."

"That's very noble of him."

"Yes, it is."

There was a long pause as the two of them stood quietly, scrutinizing each other. Only a day earlier, Webster had recounted the infamous stories of Lt. Speirs and looking at the man himself then, Lorena believed every word. But, in a way, she found an equal in his olive green eyes and she couldn't quite decide if that bothered her or not. Speirs, though, immediately recognized familiarity in the solid expression worn by the now-sober correspondent and enjoyed it immensely. Truth be told, he had married on a whim after wholly convincing himself that there wasn't another soul in the world like his.

"I came here to give this back to you," he said, holding out her pen. "I figured that you'd need it."

"Oh," she said, her eyes alight. "I thought I'd lost it for good."

She smiled at the silver instrument. Her father had given it to her the day she graduated from Radcliffe and had told her to use in during her most important stories. Covering the war, she thought, would probably big the biggest story of her entire journalism career.

"What's the G for?" Speirs asked.

"Giovanna," she admitted. She had almost always been too Italian for her own taste.

"Giovanna," he repeated. He reveled in the way it rolled off his tongue. It had all the flavorings of tiramisu and espresso, sweet and exotic to his Anglo-Saxon palette. "It fits you."

She didn't dare smile at him, although she almost wanted to. "Thank you, Lieutenant."

"Ron," he corrected. "Unless you'd rather have one-sided formalities."

"No, Ron," she said, forcing his name out, "I wouldn't."

Another comfortable silence occurred. It wasn't awkward or unwanted, just something that happened. They were too busy watching one another to really notice it. She studied his rustic appearance and his poise, which she was beginning to compare to a mountain spring instead of a block of ice. There was something more natural about him than she had originally suspected. Ron, on the other hand, was trying to picture her what she looked like before all of battering. Either way, she was a dish.

"Well, thank you for returning my pen. I'm much obliged to you," Lorena said, cringing at her Southernism.

"Of course. Good luck on the jump."

"Same to you."

With that, she turned and walked away, although her gait was more along the lines of a deliberate march as her short, stacked heels clacked against the tiled floor. As soon as she rounded the corner, she leaned against the wall and inhaled deeply. This war would be the death of her.

* * *

Hitting the ground in Holland was like waking from a dream. There were thoughts that seemed so imperative at first, but as Lorena got up and really started moving, they were soon forgotten. All she could think of was hooking up with one of the platoons. She was told about one in particular, but whether it was first, second, or third was so trivial. She caught the gleam from Lt. Buck Compton's platinum hair and rushed toward him, the parachute feeling cool and soft in her hands.

The blood rushed in her ears as she hurried along with the rest of the boys, keeping the faces she recognized in her sight. She slid into the thin ditch next to Webster, trying to catch her breath. The wheat tickled her face as the wind blew it, along with the gentle scent of wildflowers that came from the long stretch of meadow in front of them. Webster tapped her shoulder, which she noticeably jumped at, and began to follow their platoon leader through the open field, where a town stood in the distance. With their M-1s at the ready, Easy glided through the stalks until they reached an empty plot of mud. Lorena sank into as she went, struggling through the fertile soil.

She could faintly hear a collection of voices that came in as a gentle, melodic hum. It sounded like singing, but she wasn't entire sure. A flash of orange appeared in the corner of her eye, a sheet tied from a window. There was a wary expression on the older woman's face at first, but the blur of a spade on the side of each and every helmet gave some relief, and the corners of her mouth twisted upward into a bare smile. Easy climbed over the wooden fence toward the town, which Lorena simply assumed was Eindhoven. She had an idea of the details, but they were so far from her thoughts. Another platoon leader, blonde-haired and blue-eyed, placed his strong hand on her shoulder and smiled. Lorena went rigid. Being touched by men made her nervous and completely panicky. She had associated male contact with all sorts of horrible things for so long that it was nearly impossible for her to relax anymore. Instead of smiling back, like she probably should have, she opted for a curt nod and continued to the rejoicing throngs of Dutch citizens.

Lorena wove through the sea of orange, red, white, and blue like a needle, scribbling in her notebook as she went. Elderly men and women hugged her, smudging the ink and making her already-messy cursive script practically illegible. She thanked them and shrugged them off, not bothering to hope that they weren't offended. There were more critical matters at hand. The men in uniform around her had their objective and she had hers, and sometimes, for a fleeting moment or two, she honestly thought that hers was more important.

She capped her pen and shoved in deep in her pocket as she strode up to the officers.

"What's up, Welshy?" Buck asked, pulling up the collar of his jacket.

"Snipers," Harry said, unaware of the woman beside him.

"Where?" she asked. Suddenly, she wished she hadn't put her pen away.

"They could be anywhere," Nixon said before turning to her. "Lorena, I want you to come with me. There's a leader of the Dutch Resistance around here somewhere. Maybe it'll help with whatever you're working on."

Nixon almost laughed at the spark that lit up her brown eyes, while her face remained perfectly still and stoic. At times, he thought that she must have been from outer space. No one on Earth could possibly be that impassive to everything around them. But then she'd surprise him… a flash of laughter, a hint of a shy smile, more sadness than the last drop of VAT 69. He just couldn't figure her out.

Lorena yanked her pen from her pocket again and moved alongside Nixon through the crowd. She tried not to appear too excited, but there was just something in her blood that made her crazy when it came to her job. She took pleasure in getting the story before anyone else, stepping on toes, and chasing down leads. Her father always told her that she was a born reporter, a natural inquirer, with a competitiveness that was lethal. "It'll take you far one day," he told her. _No one ever accused him of lying._

A loud chanting caught Lorena's attention before they could find the Resistance leader. In a rather large circle, women were being forced to their knees to have their hair shorn and their clothes ripped. Blood dripped from their bald heads, mixing with the black swastika that had been drawn on their foreheads. The sobs of one woman was what had drawn her in and the shamed expressions on the others is what kept her there, watching. Lorena could feel the Earth move beneath her boots.

Dick, Harry, and Buck had gathered behind their correspondent with similar looks of shock on their faces.

"What did they do?" Harry asked, his voice cracking.

"They slept with the Germans," an accented voice announced from behind them.

All four heads turned at the same time to look at a tall man with an orange band around his arm. His blonde hair was thinning and dark circles had formed beneath his pale eyes. There was an honesty to his expression that Lorena respected, a no-nonsense aura that surrounded him. She would have been in awe if she weren't still reeling.

"They are lucky," he continued. "The men who collaborated are being shot."

"Mr. Van Kooijk here is with the Dutch Resistance," Nixon said in a tone that was void of emotion.

The man took Dick's hand in his and gripped it tight. Lorena made note of it.

"We've been waiting and hoping for this day for almost five years."

Lorena made another note. She understood what it was like to be free after years of oppression.

Nixon began speaking again, something about securing bridges. The sobbing and the chanting were louder than he was, and that was all that Lorena could hear. _Spoiled Yankee bitch. _The words on the page were a mixture of information and nonsense.

"Yes, together we can push the remaining Germans out of Eindhoven," Van Kooijk said as he led them through the crowd.

"Any idea where they might be?" Dick asked, still scanning the high windows and rooftops.

"Well, we're still working on that right now," Nixon said.

Van Kooijk stepped away from them for a moment and returned with his arm around the shoulders of a young boy, who Lorena was sure couldn't have been any more than twelve-years-old. "Peers and his friends are gathering information as we speak."

"They're kids," Dick said.

Lorena stopped writing. There was no possible way that her source would be someone who didn't have the capability to grow hair on his chest yet. She had never been one to scrounge like a rat or a homeless drunk for her facts. She refused to stoop that low.

"These are reliable reports. Anything we can do, we will do. Anything," Van Kooijk said.

Before Lorena had a chance to question him, the rumble of tanks broke her concentration. _Damn machinery. _She stood on the tips of her toes, trying to get a better look at the artillery that the other foreign armies had brought in. Dutch women had climbed on top of the tanks and waved from the perches alongside the drivers. The soldiers blew kisses and grinned. For a brief moment, there was peace.

Lorena, again, attempted to maneuver through the people to find a place to sit. She took refuge on a set of front steps and flipped to a fresh page of her notebook. Over the noise of the tanks, Lorena swore that she could hear a woman scream. _You're never leavin' this city again. You're mine now, and you aren't going anywhere._

Lorena uncapped the pen with her teeth and sighed heavily. Honestly, she wished everything were as easy as work.

_EINDHOVEN -- September 1944 -- As the Dutch landscape came into view through the plane's open doorway there was a deep feeling of relief that rolled through the fuselage. The operation marked the second jump for the Normandy veterans and the first for many other soldiers who had been sent to replace the men lost over the past few months. Regardless of the experience of the men around me, it was considered the grandest situation that they could possibly be in. One of the lieutenants had told me it was "great weather for a jump. Better than the first time." The cool air and clear sky attested to this observation…_

* * *

Ron had been put in charge of rounding up the men of Dog Company and getting their minds back on the task at hand instead of on the women around them. He understood perfectly well why. The other soldiers both feared and respected him, and it gave him a power that not many had. For this, the CO trusted him to get something done right, the first time.

"Keep moving," he said, giving only stern looks.

It was hard for a lot of the men to comprehend their platoon leader's quick marriage. What woman in her right mind would marry a man like Ronald Speirs? Sure, he was a great leader, but women, at least the ones they had always known, weren't big into how well a man did in a military sense. Most broads were excited by the uniform alone. They only noticed the medals because the trinkets were shiny and broads liked shiny things. It explained their fascination with diamond rings and strings of pearls. And from what the men knew about Lieutenant Speirs, he only looted silver so his bride could sell it.

What they could understand was his sudden interest in the crazy reporter. They were two peas in a pod, one in the same. They were both armed and dangerous, obviously known for being irascible. But Ron knew that it was a different reason all together. There was something he was drawn to about a damaged woman, be she a lonely young widow or a bitter, battered wife who had gotten even. He got to be the knight in shining armor, save the day, be the hero… just by being constant and still. While they were vulnerable or distant, Ron stepped in, strong and unmoved by the calamity that was left in their wake. And he brought balance, or so he liked to think. This thought process of his, though, was the reason that his feet, completely under his control (like everything else), were heading toward Lorena, who was bent over her notepad.

Her short curls tumbled forward into her eyes, casting wavy shadows down her face. Ron stood in front of her, waiting for her to acknowledge that he was there but also knowing that she probably never would.

"Everyone has to keep moving," he said.

"Can I finish this thought first?" she asked snidely

"No, you have to move with the rest of us. You're sorta with the Army now, so you have to--"

"Move when you say 'move' and jump when you say 'jump.'"

Ron sneered at the bright sunlight that poured over the rooftops and clenched his jaw. "If you want to put it that way, sure."

Lorena sighed and stood, straightening out the invisible creases in her uniform. "Don't get too used to this, Ron. I buried my obedient side with Parker a long time ago."

She began to walk far ahead of him. So far, in fact, that she couldn't see him smirk. There were no doubts in his mind, Lorena Carlyle would be just fine.

* * *

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	5. Dying Ain't Much of a Living

**A/N: **Thank you for all the support! It's been quite wonderful.  
Here is chapter five. Lots of smoking. Mild spousal abuse, but you had to know that was coming.  
(www . youtube . com/watch?v=oJJe7pk_svs)

Inspired by Jon Bon Jovi and Sigmund Freud.

* * *

**V. Dying Ain't Much of a Living  
**_the ghosts appear as i fall asleep  
to sing an outlaw's serenade_

Lorena jolted awake in the middle of the night again. Instead of gripping cotton sheets, though, her hands clamped down on cold grass, which had her convinced she was still dreaming for a second or two. But the feeling of dread and terror was gone and her skin didn't ache from the black-and-blue bruises… and she was alive.

She always died in her dreams, killed by the blonde-haired, blue-eyed Parker Hollis. He pushed her down a long, narrow flight of stairs and she died. He poisoned the coffee and she died. He stabbed her with a knitting needle; he tripped her into incoming traffic; he tossed the radio into the bathtub; he strangled her with a garden hose; he impaled her with an icicle; he smothered her with the cat… some were silly and others were somber. Either way, she ended up dead and there was no way for her to escape.

Lorena stood and tried to regain her bearings. _Holland. Work. Army. 1944. September. Lieutenant Speirs?_ Lorena cocked her head and looked at the silhouette of the man in the moonlight. He had shed his jacket, but stood in his still-laced boots, bloused trousers, and simple cotton shirt. Lorena overlooked gun at his feet and walked over, her gait poised and quiet.

"Having a nightmare?" he asked, still gazing out across the fields.

"Not really. More like memories turned into Salvador Dali paintings. I'd give anything to not have to be inside my own mind for a day."

Speirs held out a package of cigarettes. Lorena stared at it, her face void of any expression.

She was no stranger to rumors. In Boston, there had been speculation about her marriage.

_I heard that her father wants to tap into the fortune that that Hollis boy is making down south._

_I heard that she's mentally unstable and the family finally saw an opportunity to hand her over to someone else._

_I heard that she's expecting and now they have to get married as soon as possible._

Atlanta was no different.

_She said she was clumsy with a kitchen knife. Of course I believe it. You know how those Yankee women are in the kitchen._

_Chasing down a man for some newspaper story. According to her, that's how she got that limp. Well, she looked me right in the eye when she said it. No, Parker Hollis would never do that. He doesn't seem like the kind to hit his woman._

_Apparently, she's been lying to us for the past two years. Poor girl finally snapped. I'm not surprised, though. She is a Yankee._

_They say she went crazy. Starting drinking whiskey. There's no coming back from that._

But this was a new set of rumors, one of a man who had given a group of German POWs cigarettes before hosing them with bullets. And there he was, beside her, offering her a smoke. She reached for it, knowing that she'd probably regret it later.

"You're not going to shoot me now, are you?" she asked, using her own lighter.

"I could ask you the same question."

Lorena inhaled and exhaled the smoke, savoring the essence of a Lucky Strike. Although she wouldn't admit it, Speirs' stoical presence comforted her. Something about his silence proved that he was secure enough in his manhood that he didn't feel the need to express every thought that crossed his mind. Lorena had found that the most insecure men were the chatty ones: the ones that bragged and boasted and made a lot of dumb show to attract attention. Speirs, though, gained notice through simply being. And she sort of liked it.

Then, quite out of the blue, she started to laugh. At first, it was a low chuckle, almost internal, but it began to grow and she was practically doubling over. It was years of pent-up laughter, decades of jokes that she had heard, a lifetime of suppressed feelings that came spilling out in waves. Ron watched her and felt as though there was something he was missing. A part of him thought that he should join her. Wasn't that was one was supposed to do around maniacal people? Go along with the crazy so they didn't get hysterical? But Lorena was beyond hysterical, until she finally wound down.

"I'm sorry," she said, wiping tears away. "It's just… you're the first person to have a comeback. Thank you for that. I appreciate it."

"You're better now?"

"Much."

Lorena continued to stare forward, a fresh glow to her face. The first time Ron saw her, he thought that he had her figured out. She was the typical matriarch and the perfect high society daughter. He imagined that she belonged to the DAR, drank rose tea at four in the afternoon, and had gotten through the Depression without a scratch. The second time he met her, he saw a woman that wore her vulnerability on her sleeve, in her eyes, in the words she spoke. _Thank you for catching me._ As if no one else had ever done so before. The third time they met, though, was an entirely different story. She was cold in ever way a person could be: her tone, her appearance, her fingertips. It was as though she had been carved from a glacier. She had learned how to lock the doors of her soul without keys and keep them closed without glue or cement. It was a talent, like painting or tap dancing.

But, slowly, like snow melting in a weak winter sun, Ron found that she was all of his presumptions of her. The DAR darling, the unsteady wonder, the ice queen… she was all of it, and he wasn't sure how it was possible.

He stomped his cigarette out with the toe of his boot and inhaled as the wind blew, finding himself enraptured with the scent of raspberries and caramel that swirled around him. Then guilt flooded him. He had a wife back in England, a widow of a British soldier, with a baby on the way. There was no sense in his interest in the reporter and he felt horribly embarrassed for ever admiring the way that the uniform hugged her breasts. But before the feeling had a chance to settle in, it was washed away by the urge to hear her speak, because Lorena Carlyle, with her ritzy Boston accent and her scars, was more interesting than his bride had ever been.

"Tell me about yourself, Lorena."

Lorena panicked again. She hoped that her trembling wasn't too noticeable in the moonlight. "If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not talk about me. You probably have better stories to tell anyway."

Although she had been out of practice for a considerable amount of time, Lorena still knew perfectly well how to stroke a man's ego. It was almost second nature to her.

"Where are you from?" she asked.

He offered her another cigarette. She took it. "Scotland. But my parents relocated to Maine when I was young. And I lived in Boston for a short time before that. We heard a lot about your family there."

"Why did you join the Airborne?" Lorena asked, changing the subject.

"I wanted to fight with the best, same with everyone else."

"What would you be doing if there was no war going on?"

Ron smiled and lit another cigarette. "This. Some men are born to be painters or writers or businessmen or farmers. I was born to be a soldier. It's as simple as that."

"Is it?" Lorena said with a sigh, watching the lights flicker in the windows of the town across the field.

"Weren't you born to be a journalist?"

"Probably, but I'm not so sure I believe in fate anymore."

Ron looked at her, at her face in the orange illumination of the cigarette, at her straight pose. It took years of practice to have posture that flawless.

"What do you believe in, then?"

Lorena put out the cigarette and turned to meet his gaze. "In not allowing history to repeat itself."

* * *

Tanks rumbled through the Dutch landscape on a gravel road, lined by power lines and grassy fields. Lorena refrained from taking notes, knowing that she wouldn't be able to read them later anyway. Instead, she tried to enjoy the scenery while trying to soak up as much as she could from the men around her. Webster sat to the left of her and Sgt. Randleman, who the men had nicknamed Bull, was seated to her right. At her feet was Hoobler, who had spoken at lengths to her about German guns and his intentions of getting a hold of a particular one before the war was through. He, although she lacked a large capacity for it, amused Lorena.

"Vincent Van Gogh was born in Nuenen," Webster said, grinning cheerfully.

"Yeah," Cobb, a stone-faced soldier, said. "So what?"

"Undoubtedly one of the greatest Post-Impressionists of all time. His use of arbitrary color is astounding," Lorena rambled on, unknowingly adding to the smile on her friend's face. "Nothing makes sense and, yet, it does. So, maybe he was a little eccentric, but that's what added to his artistic genius. His work was unorthodox, why shouldn't his apologies?"

Webster laughed. Bull cocked his head in confusion. "What'd you mean 'his apologies?'"

"Supposedly, Van Gogh cut off his ear and gave it to a woman he loved as an apology," she explained.

"Now, that's what I call contrite!" Webster shouted over the noise.

Hoobler rolled his eyes. "Sure teach you a lot of useful stuff at Harvard."

"That they do," Lorena said, more to herself.

One of the shamed women from earlier in the week stood, cradling a baby, on the side of the road. The wind blew back her homemade coat, exposing her bare legs and short dress. One of the soldiers handed her a box of something, which she took with a smile before nuzzling against the infant. As they rode by, Lorena could clearly see the scabs and patches of hair that hadn't been fully cut. Her eyes locked with the woman, brown on a dark blue, and she offered a weak smile. It was the best that Lorena could do.

The tanks reached the edge of a small town by mid-afternoon and the men who were unable to fit onto the vehicles quickly leapt into the ditches that ran along the sides of road. Lorena, unsure of where to go, stayed put and watched on as Lieutenant Brewer, a man she had only spoken to once or twice, moseyed forward.

"Get a load of General Patton," Hoobler quipped. "Makes quite a target, don't he?"

Bull stepped off of the tank and leaned on the gun. He called out to Brewer, who then turned, rather nonchalantly by Lorena's standards, toward the company and the artillery. But before he could answer the sergeant, a shot rang out and Brewer, clutching his wounded neck, dropped to the rocks beneath him. Lorena froze, her eyes darting between the speeding German tank and the man lying motionless in the middle of the road.

"Clear the track!" someone shouted as Webster yanked Lorena off of the tank and into the ditch.

The men around her starting popping off rounds and the medics raced toward the front. Lorena, without a weapon or a bandage, suddenly felt terribly useless. Was she really meant to sit and write while all hell was breaking loose around her? McGalahan had told her to become a soldier and experience war through their eyes. _Through their hands, not their eyes. _She reached down to her hip and pulled the handgun out of its brown leather holster, quickly loading it as though she had done so a million times before.

Webster raised an eyebrow. "Well, I'd ask if you could fire that thing…"

"But you like living. I understand," she said with a smirk.

Bull dragged one of the replacements forward, yelling. They had to keep moving. Lorena, then, was up and running with the rest of them, a cool gun in her hot hand. She paid little attention to who she was with and eventually caught up to Bull, who was surprised to see her there, and remained close to him, knowing that whatever mistakes she made would simply blend in with the other replacements that followed. And as she gracelessly slid into the side of an oil drum, it couldn't have been truer.

As Bull rounded the corner alone, Lorena and the others remained perfectly still. They were statues, posed with drawn guns. In the distance, she could hear the tanks coming up the adjacent road. A feeling stirred deep inside of her, womanly intuition perhaps. This skirmish would not turn out well.

"Stay low," one of the men whispered, causing all of them to grip their weapons tighter.

The engines rumbled, but made no movement across the rocky path. Immediately after they did, though, a mechanical whirring came from the opposite direction. _Not well at all. _The gun from a German tank boomed, sending a round through the center of the British artillery. The blast knocked Lorena forward, face first into the oil drum. She stood, wobbling, as flashbacks of a bruised face came thundering to her and the vertigo set in.

"Fall back!" Bull shouted as the tank rolled forward.

He grabbed the teetering woman by her pack and ran with her. Another round was fired, smashing the side of the building they had been hiding behind to pieces. The gust pushed the two of them to the ground, making Lorena even more disoriented, until bullets rained down behind them. She quickly got control of her legs, keeping ahead of the line of rapid machine gun fire. Bull, following close to her, shoved her forward into another one of the ditches that ran alongside the road as the retreating British tank exploded, hoping to shield her from as much of the shrapnel as possible.

But the pieces went everywhere. A large sliver of metal lodged into the back of Bull's shoulder, sending a burning sensation coursing through him, and a small shard pierced Lorena's upper leg. She gasped at the pain, but struggled out of the way of the blazing tank.

"Crawl!" Bull said.

She panted, reaching and pulling at the grass at her fingertips, trying so desperately to escape the inferno. But then she saw it: an opening. She lunged toward it as more of the tank came toppling down near there. Lorena, gripping her soaked thigh, slipped over the rusted grate of the concrete drain.

"Bull! Hurry!" she yelled, grabbing his hands and pulling him through just before the vehicle crashed down into the trench.

They watched from their cylinder as the Americans retreated, the sounds of German gunfire at their backs. Lorena, woozy and in pain, turned to the soldier next to her. _Baptized by fire, indeed._

"So, Sergeant, what do we do now?"

Bull winced. _Shrapnel, first. Finding Easy, second. Don't get captured by the damn Krauts. _"We wait until the sun goes down. And then we figure it out from there."

Lorena nodded. Another pain came, and then another.

Her eyesight blurred.

Everything became hazy. Everything became black.

* * *

Her mother had always said not to trust a man with two last names, but her father thought that she was just being silly and superstitious. "Why is it that when you marry a Sicilian, you also marry their nonsense?" he'd say, to which her mother always had a response.

"And why is it that when you marry a Scot, you find that they always want to fight what they cannot understand?"

But her mother had been right. Parker Hollis was a menace and Lewis Nixon (as far as Lorena could tell) was trouble, but Dick Winters was a saint and David Webster had become her first actual friend since their meeting in the pub only weeks prior. The only person the theory didn't coincide with was Ron Speirs. Speirs, Ron. One first name, one last name. He didn't fit and therefore, she wasn't sure how to deal with him and how he made her insides twirl.

Mama would have told her to forget it, and so she did.

So often, Lorena reveled in knowing that she was her mother's daughter. She had Lilla Fanciullo's dark hair and dark eyes, her wit and her ingenuity, her complexity and her impulsiveness. But she also inherited her mother's passive-aggressive nature and her ability to betray. From Charles Carlyle, she received a freckled face and his meticulous attention to detail, his need for control and his incapacity to forgive and forget.

Her mother, though, wouldn't have put up with half of the things that Parker Hollis dished out, and it had the first strike of a hand against her that awakened the sleeping dragons that were her anti-social qualities.

"You're late," Parker slurred, spilling his whiskey on their brand new carpet.

"I tried to get away, but McGalahan insisted that I finished that piece on the gas station crisis. It's getting worse, you know. The amount of money that these people are losing is just incredible," she rambled on as she tore through her purse looking for a lighter, ignoring his stupor as she had been taught to do long ago. "Oh, I hope Jack saved our reservation. I mean, we're only a half hour late. I'll just go freshen up and we can be on our way."

"We ain't going anywhere," he said as slammed the now-empty tumbler down.

"Parker, what are you talking about? Of course we're going. It is my birthday after all."

He stumbled drunkenly toward her. "You think that you can come home late without callin' and expect me to get all gussied up and spend a bunch of money on you?"

"Parker, please. Can we go one night without fighting? I didn't come home late on purpose and I promise it'll never happen again."

"Your damn right it won't. I want you home by six o'clock from now on. Got it?"

Lorena's jaw tightened. She had drawn a lot of lines in her marriage to Parker Hollis, but letting him treat her like shit on her birthday was one she wasn't going to let him cross.

"Six o'clock? For God's sake, Parker, I'm not a child! And if you think for a goddamn second that you're going to keep me from doing my job, then you've got another thing com--"

Before Lorena could even register what was happening, she was on the floor, clutching her stinging cheek and wiping away the blood from her lip. She had expected the insults, the ones that he had been hurling since their arrival as newlyweds in the South, but the violence was something she hoped would never occur. No one ever told her that it would ever be like this and she was too stunned to fight back.

From that moment on, it was always skin on skin, leather on skin, glass on skin, blood, bruises, scars, broken bones, lies, long sleeves in the summertime. The threats didn't seem so empty anymore. It was the point of no return.

* * *

reviews are love.


	6. Caring Is Creepy

**A/N: **My French isn't very good, but I am getting this out before March! Okay, 10 minutes before, but it still counts, right?  
And I have no idea why a Dutch farmgirl would know French, but this one does because it suited my needs. Enjoy!  
(www . youtube . com/watch?v=8hhxthxhwk0)

Inspired by The Shins and nothing but The Shins.

* * *

**VI. Caring Is Creepy  
**_it's a luscious mix of words and tricks  
that let us bet when you know we should fold_

Lorena wasn't sure how she had gotten into the barn, but if the pebbles lodged in the laces of her boots were any indication, Bull had dragged her there. It must have been quite a feat for him, despite how little she weighed, due to the metal. But he was next to her, clutching his gun tightly. The sounds of various tones jabbered on in the distance and she could only assume that the German company that had destroyed much of the British artillery and their American comrades had taken over the town. As a light wind blew through the slats in the wooden walls, the smell of the hay and grains went with it. She could feel the straw in her hair and the dust on her face. She forced back a sneeze, making the hay rustle beneath her.

"You're awake," Bull said in a gruff voice. "You alright?"

"What? This? This is nothing. It's not as bad as it looks, actually. Some blood loss. Trust me, I spent three weeks with shards of glass lodged in my lower leg. How are you?"

"Not so good. I've gotta get this thing outta here."

Lorena paled and bit down hard on her bottom lip. With a sharp intake of breath, she got to her feet and knelt down behind him. She looked closely at the wound, wrinkling her nose and cringing. Her blood never seemed to bother her, but anyone else's bodily fluids were beyond disgusting. She flinched before continuing. She reached toward his shoulder, damning her shaking hands.

Shuffling came from behind them before Lorena could get her hands dirty and Bull was up and ready to kill. The man that had entered though, was not a German soldier, but a middle-aged Dutch man. Bull pressed his knife against the man's throat, eliciting a gasp, although the soldier was nearly a head shorter than he was. The light from the open doorway was blocked by the young woman who had followed. A daughter or niece, Lorena thought. She wavered in the entry, not knowing whether to run or fight. Lorena understood and decided, against her better judgment, to speak.

"Sprechen Sie Englisch?"

The girl, blonde-haired and brown-eyed, gave her a blank stare and shook her head. "Nein," she answered in a soft whisper.

Lorena winced as she shifted her weight. "Parlez-vous françias?"

The girl nodded quickly, still utterly confused as to what a woman was doing in a uniform. She had heard of women in the Resistance, but in the military? There was no doubt that there were Americans, despite the fact that the woman's accent was almost that of a native of France.

"Parle t-il françias?" Lorena asked, nodding toward the older man.

"No."

"Okay," Lorena began calmly. "Nous sommes des Américans. Mon ami a du métal dans son épaule. J'ai certains dans na jambe. Pouvez-vous nous aider?"

"Oui," she said. She looked at the man and began translating and instructing. Lorena, for the first time in her life, wished that she had learned Dutch or German or both.

Bull pushed the three of them back into the cover of the stable, hidden from any Kraut eyes, as the loud rumble of tanks boomed nearby. He grabbed hold of his rifle and crouched at the corner, waiting and listening as he had been doing since taking refuge. After the noise quieted, he returned and looked at Lorena.

"What'd you tell her?"

"That we're Americans. You have metal in your shoulder. I have some in my leg. They're going to help. He's going to remove the shrapnel for you, but you have to stay still."

"Can't you do it?"

"Maybe, but I trust him more than I do myself."

With that, Bull nodded and reluctantly let the Dutch farmer near him. His face contorted as the man's fingers began to attempt to remove the metal shard. He leaned into the wooden wall, almost as though he were trying to escape the pain by going through it. Lorena watched helplessly, clutching at her own soaked uniform. When the man finally dug the fragment out, with the help of the knife that was once against his neck, he discarded it on the barn floor, letting it sink into the hay. He spoke to the girl, who in turn, spoke to Lorena.

"Son fera le vôtre ensuite," she said.

Lorena shook her head vigorously. "No. Vous devez l'emballer."

Lorena placed her fingers on the tip of the tank splinter and, in one swift motion, pulled it out. The blood began coursing out of the wound, drenching her leg more. The girl stuffed her handkerchief into the wound, attempting to absorb most of the blood.

"Merci," Lorena said in a hoarse voice. _It's nothing I can't handle. It's nothing I can't handle. It's nothing I can't handle._

Bull then jumped up and rushed to a broken window. He stared out of it for some time, until he ran back, his own makeshift gauze falling to the ground.

"What's happening?" Lorena whispered.

"A group of Krauts are comin' this way. They've gotta go!" Bull said, ushering the people that had just saved their lives out the back.

The man gave Bull's knife back to him and shook his hand. "Danke."

Bull nodded. "Go. Go. Lorena translate or something."

"Allez. Nous vous mettons dans assez de danger."

The squeak of the main door's hinges had the four of them drop to the floor, listening to the cackling of German voices. _Mama, please. Watch over me, Mama. _The girl, and the farmer ducked behind a stable wall near the back door, while Lorena crawled forward to hide behind sacks of grain and corn. She inhaled the sweet, earthy smells and listened as the Germans stalked off, leaving one behind to relive himself.

This infuriated Lorena. It was something Parker Hollis would have done: pissed on someone's property, in someone's barn, on someone's life. The sound of a single gunshot from a .44 caliber handgun echoed in her thoughts. _Lorena… _She could still hear his accent-tinged voice, raspy with imminent death, say her name. So, when the sounds of screaming came, she didn't balk or shudder.

She just assumed it was in her head.

* * *

Ron stared silently out across the field again, watching the bombs illuminate the city in the distance. The bright orange flashes reminded him of Lorena and the way that her freckled skin looked when it was basking in the glow of a Lucky Strike. He had heard that she went missing with Sgt. Randleman from Easy, and that a group had gone out looking for them. A large part of him wished that he had gone with them. And how he hated that he wished that. He hated that she got him so twisted around and disorderly. He hated that he could still smell her on the air. He hated that he even gave a damn. Actually, he just hated his emotions. They were insecurities that he couldn't shake.

"If there ain't no body, there ain't nobody fucking dead," he heard one of the men say.

He didn't know why, but with everything he had, he hoped that it was true.

* * *

The town was empty by the time that the sun rose in the morning. The Germans, the Dutch, the Americans, the British, the Canadians… they were all gone. Lorena put her hand up, blocking out some of the bright sunlight that glared down from above. The air smelt distinctly of fire and warfare, of blood and wet dirt. She could taste the pain and the destruction just as well as she could see it. Bull walked out beside her, pieces of hay stuck to him. He slung his rifle over his good shoulder and continued on toward one of the bodies that rested in one of the many ditches. She watched as he bent down and ripped one of the dog tags from the corpse, gazing down upon it with a sad, pained expression. She stood by, silently, unsure of how to help.

Lorena had never been good at comforting people. At her mother's funeral, she had been a wreck. There were too many people, too many tears, too many flowers, and too many sponge cakes that were obviously baked by the hired help of the people who had brought them. "Your mother was a great woman," they had told her, as if she were far younger than her sixteen years. But they were the same people that had gossiped and looked down on Lilla Fanciullo-Carlyle with disdain. They were horrified by her foreignness. _They named him what? Lorenzo? Does Charles want him to grow up to be some guinea-wop dock worker? Because with a name like Lorenzo… _Lorena knew all of this. She had overheard the women at the social clubs talking, the looks they gave, the false smiles. She had been observant all of her life, but she had never been compassionate. It was the reason that she exploded at the funeral, screaming and yelling and blaming all of the hypocritical monsters that had forced her mother out. _None of you deserve to live. You should all be in there instead of my mother. She was better than all of you. You all deserve to die. _Even in her mid-twenties, nearly a decade later, she was still filled with an inability to cope with other people's losses. Since killing Parker, it had only become worse. She felt no remorse, no regret. She tried to drudge up all of the feelings she had when her mother died to help empathize with Bull, but all of her attempts were quickly replaced by the smell of blood and the memories of the stains that had ruined her white carpet.

"Who is it?" she asked.

"Miller."

"He was a nice boy. A little naïve, but… oh, I'm sorry. Err… may he rest in peace," she said, although it almost sounded like a question.

"Nah, you're right. He would've been a fine soldier. Just needed more time."

"Almost everybody does."

"Yeah," Bull sighed, "almost everybody." _Not your husband, I guess. _"Let's get outta here. Who knows what them Krauts are up to. They could be back any time."

"Of course," Lorena said, nodding. "By the way, Sergeant Randleman, thank you for… taking care of that German soldier."

"Just doin' my job," he said.

She filed it away in her mind.

"Thanks for gettin' that man to get the tank out of me. I don't know if I would of made it very long if ya hadn't."

"Only doing my job, Sergeant."

They exchanged small, genuine smiles and turned toward the main road out of town. Her leg started to ache as she continued on, just enough to slow her down. But before Lorena could ask Bull to take a short break, the sound of a small vehicle came rambling towards them. The gunner, perched atop the jeep, was obviously American and was less weary of the pedestrians than he would have been in normal circumstances. A German could have donned a U.S. Army uniform in order to ambush one of the military drivers and their passengers, but it was unlikely that he would bring a woman along for the hoax. And when the man raised his gun in the air, there was no longer doubt in the gunner's mind.

"What're you two doing out here?" the driver asked.

"Got a little lost," Bull said nonchalantly, letting his half-hearted grin enhance his joke.

"What battalion you guys, I mean, you two in?"

"Second," Lorena said, raising a hand to her eyes to block out the harsh glare of the morning sun.

"506?"

Bull and Lorena nodded.

"Hop up. You get the front seat, Miss. That leg don't look too good."

Lorena bowed her head in acknowledgment and declined. "Thank you, but this isn't the first injury I've had. His shoulder is injured. It'll be much harder for him to travel in the back. I have to insist that you take the front, Bull. And don't bother fighting me on it. Remember what happened to the last man who crossed me?"

Bull laughed for the first time in days, perhaps weeks. "Yes, ma'am."

He clamored into the passenger seat, resting comfortably against the leather. Lorena jumped, messily, into the back next to the gunner, slamming around more than she intended. She leaned forward and steadied herself on the back of the seat, regretting her rather noble decision. But as the wind whipped through her already-tangled hair, she sighed against it, remembering the days before the war.

_Si maritau Rosa__  
__Saridda e Phippinedda  
__E iu ca sugnu bedda  
__Mi vogghiu mariti__à..._

Half a mile later, they came to an abrupt stop. The gunner, who Lorena swore that she had known somewhere else, turned toward several dark figures in the distance. One of them raised their weapon, much like Bull had done, and she found herself relax. These men were one of their own. And as they walked closer, Lorena began to recognize their faces: Hoobler, Hashey, Garcia, Cobb, and Webster.

"Where the hell you been?" Hoobler asked with a laugh, practically breathless upon spotting his sergeant.

"Good to see you boys," Bull said. He smiled through the pain that shot through his shoulder beautifully, in Lorena's less-than-humble estimations.

Webster stepped forward and offered his arms to Lorena, spying her blood-soaked leg. She tensed at the suggestion, but knew that it was more logical to trust him at that point than to not. She turned and slid off of the jeep into his arms. Webster embraced her, causing her to go completely rigid.

"Thought we had lost you already," he said.

"No," she laughed nervously. "I'm not easy to get rid of. Ask anyone."

"Let's get moving, boys," the driver said in a heavy drawl. "The Krauts are crawling around everywhere."

Webster jumped up onto the back of the jeep and helped Lorena up. He eyed the wound warily. "That looks bad," he said as the others clamored in around them.

"It always does," she answered, trying to pretend that the pain wasn't there.

And Webster dropped the subject, just like that. Lorena liked that about him. He could sense she didn't want to discuss it any further and simply let it go. There were so few people left in the world with sense to mind their own business… so, so few. _How are you holding up? Just okay? I mean, because you don't look okay, honey. You look a little less than okay. Now, really, how are you holding up?_ Lorena appreciated tact anywhere she could find it.

* * *

When Ron saw a jeep pull up, packed with the men who had left the night before, his chest tightened. One of them, Webster he was pretty sure, jumped down from the vehicle and was no longer blocking Ron's view of her. The soldier, he saw, turned and offered her his arms. She declined, in spite of the grimacing that she did as she slid onto the front seat and then stepped down to the moist earth. A few other men shook her hand, make several unnecessary jokes about being baptized by fire, and then went to congratulate the rest of their comrades that had returned. Then Lorena was alone, except for the medic, who had insisted on tending to her leg. Ron swallowed hard before he made his way over to her, thoroughly disgusted by his anxiety. It wasn't like him to be anxious, to care, to talk to women that weren't his wife, to be anxious about talking to women that weren't his wife. He had to command himself to snap out of it and stop acting like a right git.

"I see you've had an interesting time," he said, nodding towards her leg.

"Yes, I have, but please, spare me the 'baptism' comments. Not that I don't appreciate it, because I certainly do, but, well…"

"It's redundant."

"Exactly." Lorena turned her attentions to the Cajun at her feet as a wave of heat rushed to her cheeks. "How does it look, Eugene? It is Eugene?"

Doc Roe looked up at her with soft eyes as he wiped her blood from his fingertips. "Yes, ma'am. Your leg looks alright, but you think you can stay off it for a while?"

Lorena bit her bottom lip. "How long is 'a while' in your opinion?"

For as long as she could remember, "a while" had been given a different definition by every medical professional that she had met. Hours, days, weeks, months… Lorena had been told minutes once, but she was later informed that that particular man (whom she paid over sixty dollars to) was, in all honesty, a quack. From Eugene Roe, she was hoping to hear hours or days.

"A week at best," he said, though suddenly regretting it as he watched dejection move across her face. "But some people heal better than others. It could be days for you."

Her eyes flicked up at his as he stood. Lorena gave a tight smile and nodded. "Thank you, Eugene."

The medic headed toward the tanks and trucks on top of the hill where the other men of Easy Company were gathering. The afternoon sun, still impossibly bright even on an autumn day, beat down upon the soldiers. Lorena turned to Ron, noticing the way that the light hit his dark hair, bringing out the underlying shimmer of gold that ran through each strand. She bit back a laugh as she realized how stupid her own thoughts sounded. _Cliché, naïve little woman._ It didn't go unnoticed by Ron, though, who silently wondered what she could have possibly found funny. For a spilt second, he worried that she could read his mind and that was what she was trying not to laugh at. _I was worried about you. Yes, I, Ronald fucking Speirs was worried about you, Lorena Giovanna Carlyle-Hollis. Ludicrous, isn't it? _And Ron knew that he could have said it. What did he care if she judged him? She was a just some woman, just some journalist with a death wish, just some woman that still wasn't his wife (no matter how many times in the past few weeks that he had imagined the things he would have done if she were). She didn't mean anything to him. Nothing. Nothing at all. His palms got sweaty again and he suddenly felt like kicking his own ass for acting so childish.

And Lorena, of course, could have run her fingers through his hair. It was fairly obvious by that point that she was shameless. No self-respecting murderer had shame. But she knew that no matter the outcome, she would be irreversibly damaged. Either he would accept her touch, lean into it perhaps, or he would grab her wrist to stop her, unintentionally sending her into a massive panic attack; the kind that always happened when men touched her. It was enough to control her breathing and her heartbeat while Eugene examined her leg or while Webster helped her down from the jeep. There was no reason for her to risk it. Moreover, she was certain the gold band on his finger was for more than decoration. So, instead, she kept her hands at her sides or at her face, wiping away the dirt, and he continued to stand there, silently. The both of them feigned a lack of interest until the platoons were called.

"It was nice to see you again, Ron," she said with a practiced nod.

"Yeah, you too. Glad to see you're okay." He paused. "I was worried."

With that, he turned and walked away to call on his own platoon, leaving Lorena to stare after him, confused. She hadn't had a man outside of her family worry about her in years. _Worried. Worried. Worried? _Lorena moved toward the trucks in a daze, debating whether or not she enjoyed Ron worrying or if it was too uncommon, borderline disturbing. She could hear Webster talking the whole way to the next Dutch town and could hear her own voice answering him, but Lorena wasn't invested in the conversation. She was too wrapped up in the sound of Ronald Speirs' voice as it repeated in her head. _I was worried. Worried. Worried. Worried._

_

* * *

_

By the time 2nd Battalion had gotten to Schoonderlogt, she had decided that "worried" was a wonderful word.

_

* * *

_

reviews are love.


	7. Eyes On Fire

**A/N: **Just for the record, I'm basing my views on the South on 15 years experience in Florida. We're backwards, we can't vote, and we don't have seasons. I'm a little bitter towards it.  
And did anyone else see The Pacific? Fantastic.  
(www . youtube . com/watch?v=LAxCqlU-OAo)

Inspired by Blue Foundation and a vampire romance overdose.

* * *

**VII. Eyes On Fire  
**_you've been waiting in vain  
__i've got nothing for you to gain_

In Schoonderlogt, Lorena was quartered in the same house as Lewis Nixon, Dick Winters, and a few other men that mingled at battalion headquarters. She sometimes worried that she kept the soldiers on the second floor awake with her pacing and tapping, her tossing and turning, her typing and crying. She had insisted on getting the first floor, where she was less likely to disturb anyone, but, like idiots, they assigned her to the third floor: the fully furnished attic.

There, they said, she would have more privacy and more space to work. _Don't writers need space? _Lorena thought it was a rather silly question. Space? Really? She was a war correspondent, not a damn poet. Her objective was to be able to write in the middle of a siege or in between gunfire. The point was to deal with her surroundings and let them inspire her fingers as they trailed along the typewriter keys, like Mozart at a piano. But men were in charge of the whole system and when they looked at Lorena Carlyle, they saw a woman and nothing more. She was not their equal and she could not be trusted to take care of herself. But Lorena, unbeknownst to the male population of the world, wasn't trying to be equal to them in any way, shape, or form. Why the hell, she wondered, would she ever want to be so far down at their level?

Nonetheless, Lorena was convinced that in the morning they would realize their mistake and move her down to the first floor. But on her first night, she found that she wasn't the only one that couldn't fall asleep. Nixon sat quietly at the table, fingering the flask in his pocket… debating. Lorena, still fully dressed in her uniform, made her way down stairs to ultimately apologize to whomever she had probably kept awake. She peaked around the corner to see Nixon pull the flask out and stare down pensively before unscrewing the top and taking a swig. Lorena inhaled deeply and bit her bottom lip hard. For the most part, she knew that there was no danger awaiting her in that dining room, but she had found Parker the exact same way too often and no matter how many times she reminded herself that he was dead, she couldn't help but wait for the yelling to begin.

"Hello, Lewis," she said softly.

"Hi, Lorena. Why are you whispering?"

"I don't want to wake up the others."

He laughed a little; more of a chuckle, really. "Smart. They wake up and there's less for you and me," he said, raising the flask to bring her attention to it.

"Oh, no thank you. I've sworn off scotch for a little while. Left me with a headache last time." _A big one. His name is Ronald Speirs. I'm sure you've heard of him. _

"Awe, come on now, Lorena. You can't let me drink alone. It's bad manners. What would Emily Post say?"

Lew motioned to a chair next to him and waited for her next move. Looking at her, though, made him miss home in a way that he never thought he would. Her gait, so deliberate and quiet, was a practiced one, much like that of his wife, his mother, and his sister. It was something wealthy northeastern women had been taught from birth. _Smaller steps, ladies. You don't want to sprint down the aisle to the heir of that shipping/oil/steel company, do you? _Her smile, or lack of, reminded him of his second cousin, the one his father had suggested he marry to "keep it in the family." Her trimmed nails, her long legs, the visible softness of her skin… she was so familiar to him. But Lorena Carlyle, he reminded himself, had killed a man. It was so unapparent upon first glance, but the more a person stared at the writer, the more he or she could see her past, as she wore it, unabashedly, on her face.

Lorena folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the doorframe. "I don't remember what Emily's protocol was for drinking at one in the morning in a house that you're militarily occupying."

"So, if there are no rules…" he began suggestively.

"Then there are no rules to break. Honestly, Lewis, if I didn't know you were from New Jersey, I'm sure I cold have guessed by now."

He chuckled rather darkly and pushed the chair out with his foot, allowing her to sit. "So, Miss Lorena, I'm guessing this isn't your first time in Europe."

She took the flask from Lew's outstretched hand and put her nose to the top, inhaling the all-too-familiar smell of VAT 69. She had once attended a marathon poker game with Lorenzo and found that, in the morning, her satin gown and Veronica Lake styled hair wreaked of the whiskey and cigar smoke. She took an un-ladylike mouthful and passed it back.

"Definitely not. Every summer of my life has been spent in either Paris, London, Rome, or Palermo."

"Palermo?" Lew scoffed. "What's in Palermo?"

"Sicilians. We only went once. Just to remind Mama why she left. But this is the first time I've been back in years."

"Because of the war?"

Lorena pursed her lips and thought of how properly explain. It was because of _a _war, but not _the _war. "Because of my husband," she finally said.

Lew looked down at his dry, cracked, empty hands. "Normally, I'd ask what really happened, because there's got to be more to the story, but Dick already chewed me out once about it, so I'll just sit here and pretend to be a gentleman."

The two of them drained the flask without any further mention of marriage or Europe or wars. Instead, Lorena and Lew spoke as though they had met, not in the middle of a war, but in the middle of a social club over drinks (not over a folder that described the manner in which she had been acquitted of murder). The trick was to imagine the entire conversation occurring at another time and another place. By the time the grandfather clock in the hall struck three o'clock in the morning, Lorena was able to make a second tally mark on her list of friends: Lewis Nixon of Nixon, New Jersey.

* * *

Moose Heyliger was distrustful of Lorena Carlyle in more ways than one.

She was quiet. The only time anybody was quiet in the Army was when they were on patrol. On their off-time, though, they were a bunch of crazy bastards. Reading was something a guy did when he was too tired to shoot the shit. They wrote letters when they were really missing home or because it was somebody's birthday. But most of the time, those boys were loud as fuck. And it was a known fact that you had to watch out for the quiet ones. They taught you that shit in OCS. "Watch those quiet fuckers. They're the ones that are going to either go fucking nuts or are going to blow your foot off because their heads are in the fucking clouds. Watch 'em close." And so he watched her and he knew that it was her job to write about the war, just like it was his job to lead Easy since Winters had been promoted, but she was quiet and he couldn't trust her.

And she was always talking to Doc Roe. Moose was starting to think that she was getting some extra morphine to put in her own aid kit, just in case. She did get hit once already, right? Or maybe she was just getting in good with the medic so, if it came down to her or some other guy, she'd be treated first. But Lorena hadn't complained at all when she _did _get hit, even when she had to stay in her blood soaked uniform for another week. And most broads didn't take getting stuck with metal too lightly. Hell, they cried if they were pricked with needles. When he stopped to think about it, he realized that she had been pretty fucking calm about the whole thing, and because of that, he couldn't trust her.

Then there was that whole murder thing. Or was it a killing? The Army taught Moose that there was a difference between murdering and killing, a difference he didn't have a clue about before the war. Killing was something a guy did to protect himself, his country, his family, whatever. Murdering was something a guy did because of money or because someone else slept with his girl or because he just didn't give a fuck. Murder was illegal as hell. Cold-blooded murder was worse. Killing, although it was pretty shitty sometimes, usually happened for the good of someone else. There were a few debates amongst the enlisted men and the officers about which one Lorena had actually done. A lot of the enlisted men and the noncoms said murder: "So what if he was beating her? Doesn't mean that she didn't shoot him point blank. I mean, it's his own fucking fault anyway. You don't beat a Sicilian woman. My pop always said they were more dangerous than shotguns." The officers, the ones that either read her or remembered the story or remember her face from the march, said killing: "She's got the scars to prove her point and twelve Southern men that didn't decide to lynch her. I don't think there is any room for argument." (When Ronald Speirs spoke, the world listened.) But Moose's comrades didn't trust her, so neither did he.

But then Operation Pegasus came up and during the whole thing, she was quite the soldier. She paddled the boat two out of the three trips. She didn't complain. She even celebrated with the Brits, even though she could have ran back to her room to punch out an article. But she stayed with the men, drinking beer straight from the bottle. And then Moose saw her laugh. It was a drunk-off-her-ass laugh, but a laugh nonetheless, with her teeth showing and everything. And Moose Heyliger, after seeing Lorena Carlyle fall off a chair from laughing so damn hard, decided that in the face of everything, he could finally trust her.

* * *

_FRANCE -- November 1944 -- As a journalist, I am objective and unbiased. As a human being, I am judgmental and prejudiced. As an honorary soldier, I am obnoxious about my opinions. When Winters was appointed to executive officer of the battalion, I was sure that no other could ever replace him as leader of Easy Company, with whom I have spent most of my time. Then, of course, I was introduced to Lieutenant Fred Heyliger, called "Moose" by the men. He led the company on an expedition to rescue several hundred stranded British soldiers, with the help of Canadian engineers. That, mind you, was safe. It was nothing like liberating Eindhoven or trying to take Antwerp. But, nonetheless, it was stressful. A few weeks ago, though, Moose was shot. Not by a Kraut, but by a replacement solider from Wyoming who acted in haste and fear. Lt. Heyliger is doing better now, as the field hospital has had him so filled up with morphine that it's practically coming out of his ears. Since the morning I was alerted to Moose's departure, though, I was set in the idea that no one better would come to Easy and as these past weeks (or have they been years) have taught me, I was right. _

Easy Company had been taken over Lieutenant Norman Dike, a favorite of "someone up at regiment," as it had been explained to Lorena by Winters. The minute that she was introduced to him, she had horrible Parker Hollis flashbacks. The yawning, the glassy eyes, the way he peaked over her shoulder when she typed… Lorena wrote him into her columns as a villain, a fiend. Then, as quickly as she possibly could, she sent a copy off to Atlanta and off to a hospital in France, where Webster was staying.

"It helps forget everything around me for a few minutes," he told her in a letter. "It's almost like you are with me in this godforsaken place, only you have the luxury of movement. Being confined to this bed is comparable to death, and although I don't long for the days of running three miles up and three miles down, I must admit that I miss the fresh air."

And Lorena had plenty of fresh air. The men started training again and she often jogged alongside of them, feeling a burn in her muscles and her joints. Their marching, though, she simply watched in annoyance. Dike, stretching his power, had the men (and boys, some just off of their eighteenth birthdays) march, in full gear, back and forth in front of him. Some called it an inspection. Lorena called it asinine. All one had to do, in her opinion, was look at Easy Company once and then read the list of things that they had accomplished. After that, there was no need for discussion. Easy, even compared to Dog or Fox, was the best and Lorena held then in the highest regard.

And Lorena mentioned all of it in her columns: Moose leaving, Dike coming in, Winters' departure (but his splendid performance in the XO position), the running, the marching, the impending cold weather that would overtake Western Europe in a matter of weeks. The only aspects of her new life that she left out were her daily conversations and walks with Ron. It began in early November when, as she was writing and watching another march, his imposing body blocked out her sunlight. She looked at him, annoyed at first, ready to chastise his obvious lack of respect for her work, but the moment his eyes caught hers, Lorena lost all sense of what she was going to say. She would have slapped herself if she was sure that it wouldn't have made a scene.

"I'm going for a walk and you look like you could use a break," he said, looking ethereal with the white light of the afternoon surrounding him; like the moon during an eclipse.

Ron had expected her to be witty or charming or playful with her answer. _Is that your idea of an invitation, Lieutenant? _Or maybe, _Of course, Ron. I'd love to._ Or, if he had any luck at all, she'd throw him a smile, the kind that made the world dissolve for the spilt second that it graced her pretty face and made him forget the letter his wife had written just days before. _It's a boy and I hope that, although he isn't yours, you'll be able to love him as if he were. _Marrying a pregnant woman was high on the list of things he probably should have put more thought into…

"Sure," she said, sliding her notebook and pen into her bag and crushing all of Ron's fucked up hopes.

They walked around the town they were stationed in, making a few heads turn in the process. She would ask him questions, trying to avoid answering anything about herself, but he would instantly turn the tables on her. That was, of course, until Lorena asked the five hundred dollar question.

"Is it difficult being away from your wife for so long?"

Ron almost stopped in his tracks, and to the untrained eye, he never really faltered. But Lorena, who had the eyes of a hawk on the hunt, noticed his sudden jolt at her inquiry. She bit her tongue to keep from smiling. _Typical male response. Women are always a weakness._ He figured that he could just lie. Lying seemed justifiable at the moment. But she'd catch it. He knew she would. That was what she did.

"I guess," he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"That's very vague," she said before offering him a cigarette.

He accepted and, in return, offered her a light. "I'm not the really talkative type. In case you hadn't noticed."

"No, I assumed that the first time I saw you."

That time, Ron did stop. He ran his hand through his unruly hair, letting it flop forward. Lorena walked ahead of him for a while before finally stopping. She didn't turn back and look at his face, just stood there, eyes focused on the earth at her feet.

"Makes sense," he said, still stationary. "The first time you saw me, you were drunk."

Lorena spun around quickly. So quickly, in fact, she almost lost her balance, but she was sure it could have easily been the way Ron looked her. "I wasn't talking about that. I meant the very first time I saw you. It was --"

"Two years ago," he sighed. "Almost to the day."

Lorena nodded briefly. "Almost."

Ron started walking again, though he didn't speak or make any attempt to, but it was a comfort to Lorena. It felt safe, like being home. Yet, as much as he could be silent and make her feel whole, he could speak and make her feel as though her world were slipping through her fingers. That happened on an evening in early December while the crickets chirped and the soldiers laughed in the distance.

"What will you be doing this weekend?" he asked. It seemed harmless enough, but he was still asking against his better judgment.

"Working, most likely. Or catching up on a few letters from Lorenzo. Why?"

_Don't do it, Speirs. You'll fucking regret it. _"I have a 48 hour pass to Paris."

"Lucky you," she said, smiling; reminiscing. "I miss that city."

"Yeah, I know. You've mentioned it a few times." _A few thousand, maybe._ "You'd know your way around then?"

Lorena blinked and her chest tightened at the tone in his voice. _Please, don't. _"Yes. Blindfolded even."

Suddenly, Ron imagined her blindfolded, stripped down and in a Parisian hotel room; mouth parted, chest heaving, hands shaking, heart pounding, hair fanned out across a pillow below him. He rubbed his hands together and ran his tongue along his bottom lip. He reached in his pocket for the pack of Lucky Strikes and ripped one out, lighting it quickly.

"I'm thinking, then, you should come." _Stop fucking thinking about her naked. _"With me, I mean."

Lorena could see the beads of sweat forming on his upper lip and the way his cheeks had gone slightly pink, but she knew the blood was rushing elsewhere. She knew the tone… it made her both nervous and weak in the knees. "How? I don't have a pass."

"Sink sent a runner about an hour ago. It's probably waiting for you."

"Oh," she said. _Just when I thought I had an out._ She wasn't sure she wanted to be alone in Paris with Ron Speirs. Not that they would ever be alone there, but there were times when she was with Ron that the rest of the world fell away. For most women, that was a sign of love, but Lorena knew better. With Parker, the world disappeared because of the fear that would enveloped her. She could feel the violence in the way her held her as they danced and hear the imminent beating in the way he spoke to her. Involuntarily, Lorena winced.

"When do we leave?"

* * *

reviews are love.


	8. Long Trip Alone

**A/N: **Many things about the Hôtel Ritz are true (such as the champagne in the teapot, the flowers, and the color schemes) and many things I am basing on a few pictures and movies. And I like to leave out translations for several reasons: to torture, to have (some) of my audience just as in the dark as the other characters, and because there are some phrases that cannot be properly translated into English (but mostly to torture). Insert maniacal laughter here.  
(www . youtube . com/watch?v=ADm_PM1uMTQ)

Inspired by Dierks Bentley, Eartha Kitt, _Gigi_, and _Love In the Afternoon_.

* * *

**VIII. Long Trip Alone  
**_so maybe you could walk with me a while  
maybe i could rest beneath your smile_

War had torn through Paris like a rabid animal. Ron hadn't noticed, really. The Eiffel Tower was there and the sidewalks were crowded with people and the saccharine aroma of café au lait. How, he wondered, was it any different from the pictures he saw in magazines or the backgrounds he saw in movies? But Lorena could feel the difference as soon as she stepped off of the train. There was a tension in her beloved city. The women were less fashionable and the men were not dressed in suits, but in class A uniforms, which instantly took away from the magic. Lorena, in her own uniform, took Ron's offered arm as they walked along the platform to the open air. From there, it was a sea of olive drab and a rainbow of patches and pins on chests and garrison caps. Lorena could feel her heart breaking.

"So, where to first?" Ron asked, trying to distract her and loosen her grip.

Lorena tried to shake the feeling, inhaling deeply and catching the scent of black tea and cedar on the air (which must have been Ron since she intimately knew Paris through her senses). She slowed down, thinking back to the days, long before the war, when she would yank on her father's hand, hoping to pull him in one direction or the other. _We have plenty of time, Lorena. There is no need to rush. Enjoy Paris for what it is. Remember, you must check in first. Then, pick your restaurants. After that, you nap. It is always better to be well-rested whenever you are in a foreign city. That way, you cannot be tricked out of half of your money by the locals. Then you decide your itinerary, but not until after you have met all of your necessary needs first. Remember that, cherie. It will be important one day._

"The hotel," she said dryly.

"I heard about one close by that's supposed to be decent price-wise. Not sure how the inside looks, but… why are you shaking your head like that?"

Lorena laughed. "Nothing. That sounds fine. The Eiffel Tower isn't far from here. We'll meet there."

"Why the hell would we meet there when we'll be at the same hotel?" (Not that Ron had planned on getting lucky or anything, but he assumed that when he asked her there, she'd be within walking distance. Lorena, though, had other plans.)

"Because, clearly, we're not if you're going on about one close to here," Lorena admonished.

"Well, where are you going?" Ron stepped away from her, letting her arm slip out from his.

Lorena straightened her posture, which, for the moment, had gotten too relaxed. "The Ritz," she said defiantly. Perhaps she was a bit spoiled when it came to certain things, such as the food she ate and the clothes she wore and the hotels she stayed in. But old habits died hard and Lorena had been taught at an early age to exclude all things from her life that did not offer complimentary champagne in exchange for her patronage.

"The hotel?"

"No, Ron, the cracker. Of course, the hotel."

"Those rooms are expensive. How the hell are you going to pay for it?"

Lorena tilted her head and scoffed. "I'll put it on my father's tab. He'd insist, you know."

She didn't see what all the fuss was about. Charles Carlyle had been staying at the Hôtel Ritz since it opened in 1898 and all throughout the late 1920s and 1930s, Lorena had spent her summer nights deep beneath the cool, plush coverlets, dreaming of clouds and flying. It didn't make sense for her to go anywhere else. But as she looked at Ron and his appalled expression, she realized that it wasn't normal to go to the Ritz and drink champagne from teacups and order caviar from room service.

Then, it dawned on her… With a small smile, just a hint of one, she inhaled sharply and prepared herself with the sensation of skin against akin as she boldly grabbed his rough hand. She pulled him through the crowds, weaving through expertly. Ron dodged the other uniforms and the civilians that had been knocked out of the way by Lorena who was obviously in a hurry. He kept a stoic look on his face, just to make him appear less pathetic. But Lorena was leading him as if he were a small child at a county fair. He was two seconds away from demanding where the hell they were going, until she came to a full and sudden stop near an intersection. Taxi cabs lined the road, the drivers waiting for someone to come along. Lorena pulled the first door open and slid in. She motioned to Ron, who stood motionless on the sidewalk.

He didn't like the idea of her taking control. Sure, he had asked her to show him around, but he still figured that he'd hold some power. But Lorena had told him months ago that she buried her obedient side with Parker Hollis and apparently wasn't lying. She stared at him expectantly, impatiently. She would not be ignored. Ron slid in the cab next to her, inhaling the musk that had seeped into the leather seats from years of use.

"15 Place Vendôme, s'il vous plaît," she told the driver, a lilt in her voice.

"Where are we going?" Ron asked, no longer amused.

Lorena smiled fully, showing off the dimples in her cheeks. Paris, regardless of how different it seemed, made her feel alive again. "Where's your sense of adventure, Lieutenant?"

"Hellva time to decide to be adventurous," he said. As soon as the words left his mouth, he had forgotten what he had said. Between her wide grin and her breasts, eye-level with his slouching form, Ron had lost all consciousness of anything else.

"Of course, because jumping from planes is so dull and boring. Please, Ron, just shoot me now. I'd rather not have to go through the motions of my monotonous life any longer," she said, flailing herself dramatically against the seat.

Ron glanced at her sideways through narrowed eyes. "I will, you know."

"Hmm. Then I guess we're a rather well-matched pair," Lorena said, smiling again.

* * *

Ron had heard about the Hôtel Ritz on a few occasions, but not enough to give the size of the building any thought. Standing inside of, though, he started to understand the scope and grandiosity of the world that Lorena had been raised in. Even in his freshly pressed officer's uniform, he felt wildly out of place, and he was beginning to regret his impromptu decision to ask Lorena along. Orchids and the distinctive smell of French perfume filled the lobby, as if to remind foreigners that they were in Paris, just in case they had forgotten. The chandeliers, Ron was sure, were real crystals and the furniture was gold-plated. It was all too bright and too spacious and too elegant. He could feel his head spinning in a million direction at once until someone said Lorena's name, forcing him to turn around sharply.

"Lorena Carlyle, you coquette! I have not seen that beautiful face of yours in ages, cherie," said a small Frenchman in a black suit. He was, in Ron's opinion, stereotypically French. From his heavy accent to his moustache to his upturned nose. It was if the man were an actor, playing a role.

"Phillipe! It's been too long," she said, shaking hands. She wished that she could embrace him, but her fears pushed him away.

"I see that this war has brought you to Paris," he said, eyeing her uniform. "Fighting the Germans, are you?"

"No, no. Simply writing about the boys fighting them, such as the lieutenant here."

Ron straightened up at the man settled his small eyes on him. He could see the judgment and feel the contempt. Ron wanted to slug him square in the nose or smash his smug face into one of the crystal vases, but then thought against it. He'd take it out on a Kraut later.

"Oh, I see. So, cherie, I suppose you will be needing one room then?"

Lorena panicked, though her face remained unchanged. She didn't breath for a moment, didn't move. Could everyone else see the lust she felt for the man that stood so awkwardly behind her? Was it obvious? She laughed politely, she way she used to at cocktail parties and luncheons and other forced social engagements.

"Two rooms, Phillipe. I've sworn off men for a while, especially under these circumstances."

"Ah, oui. I understand perfectly. C'est la guerre," he said before leading his new guests over to the reception desk.

Ron followed Lorena, feeling weaker and stupider by the minute. He was in a position of submissiveness now and it made him ill. He leaned close to her and whispered, trying to prevent the little elf at the desk from overhearing him.

"Lorena, I can't afford this place."

She rolled her eyes and leaned toward him, forcing her face dangerously close to his.

"Will you stop worrying about it? You asked me to show you around Paris and that is exactly what I intend to do."

"I don't like you paying for it," he said through gritted teeth, his jaw set too tight.

Lorena squared her shoulders. "Why? Because I'm woman or because you're a control freak?"

His nostril's flared, but he didn't answer.

"Either way, Ron, your only option is to change your reaction."

They both stared at each other, neither wanting to look away first. It had become a power struggle, a fight for who was more stubborn. Phillipe spoke before they could determine a winner.

"I am afraid that we only have one room available. We are very busy this month, cherie." He dropped his voice to a low whisper. "After La Libération, many of our regular guests returned, including your father, and we get hundreds of guests that spend the Christmas season in Paris. But this year, they told me, they are making the trip early so they can be at home with their sons. Very sweet, no?"

"It is," she lied. Lorena had seen the way that the Germans had fought at Eindhoven. They would not give up as easily as the Allies liked to think. "So, if there are no rooms, I'm guessing that there are no suites available either."

Phillipe flipped through the pages of his large, leather-bound book; running his fingers along the neat cursive writing. "Actually, cherie, we do have a suite available. A two room suite, in fact! What luck for you both!"

Ron shifted his weight. A suite at the Ritz was worse than a room: instead of being separated by multiple walls, they would only have one to keep them apart. Lorena looked back at him, having a similar thought. He was married. She told herself this time and time again, but then her evil twin would consume her and she'd just stop caring all together.

"Garçon!" Phillipe shouted at a bellhop, snapping his fingers. "Take their bags to the Executive Suite. Call if you need anything, cherie. Enjoy your stay, Lieutenant."

Ron nodded (curtly, rudely, American-ly, Ron-ly) and walked alongside Lorena, who was following the boy up the all too familiar steps. She could feel the clock turn back as her heeled feet met the soft, thick carpet. Her scars vanished and the geniality returned to her eyes. She didn't fear a man's touch. She had a wider range of emotions. She was young and carefree. She was in love with the world. She could feel the weight of her life shed off of her shoulders and chest. Then, Lorena heard the definitive click of the door closing behind her and the years rushed back to her body and her spirit. She tipped the bellhop and listened as his light footfalls faded down the hall.

Ron watched her with a quirked eyebrow. She was still again, lost in a daze of memories and sophistication. Her thick wavy locks fell wildly around her face, dusting her high cheekbones and black eyelashes. Her lips, stained a crimson, were parted slightly, taking in her surroundings with shallow breaths. And with her dark hair and her dark eyes and her dark clothes and her dark heart, she looked as absurd as Ron felt in the pastel-toned yellow sitting room.

A couple of quick knocks at the door snapped Lorena out of her trance, bringing her back to solid ground. _Paris. Furlough. December. 1944. _She spun around and opened the door to welcome in a valet, pushing a tray.

"Champagne, mademoiselle?" he asked, his hair gleaming like a string of black pearls in the Tiffany's window.

"Oui," she said softly. "Merci."

Ron had made himself comfortable on the floral-print sofa and had tossed his garrison cap to the side. He ran his fingers through his hair again as the valet set a teapot and two cups on the table, alongside a vase of orchids. Lorena hovered in the background; moving, pacing, nearly dancing. The valet left, tip in hand, leaving her no choice but to regain her slipping composure. She sat down in one of the plush chairs opposite Ron and took a deep breath.

"Well, my dear lieutenant, it seems we've gotten off on the wrong foot," she said, glancing out the window at the gardens.

"Yeah, just a bit," Ron said.

He stood up and walked toward the large window. People strolled through the garden below him: women in colorful chiffon gowns and men in gray day suits. It was as though there were no war at all.

"What do you say we have a drink, then go out and see the city? I can't promise that I won't lose my mind again, but I'll certainly try not to."

Ron scoffed, then turned around to look at her. She wasn't smiling, but there was a light tone to her voice that comforted him. He nodded and jerked his chin towards the table.

"I think I'll skip the tea," he said.

Lorena rolled her eyes and laughed. "You have so much to learn if you think that they serve tea in teapots here. First of all, they know all of my personal preferences and tea is not one of them. I could have gone anywhere to drink hot water. Secondly, they know you are an officer and this is simply a part of their new policy."

"Champagne in teapots?"

"Don't worry. I don't understand the Parisians either."

* * *

Lorena and Ron walked all over Paris, her hand in his. In any other place, it would have been impossible for her to touch him like that, but there was something new and reassuring in the roughness of his large hands. And she liked the way his eyes sparked at the sight of the Mona Lisa in the Louvre, which she imagined was partially because of the magic of standing in front of Da Vinci's masterpiece and partially because of the shock of realizing how small she was. And Lorena felt as though she could dance to his melodic laugh, the one that rose from his throat and bubbled forward through his perfect lips and made her twisted heart skip a beat. But most of all, she liked the way he didn't complain when she dragged him to see Oscar Wilde's grave. He watched her, bewildered when knelt down and placed her hand against the cool stone effigy; against the lipstick that stained it. Ron stared up into the face of the Sphinx, a gray squinting figure. He stood, waiting for it to open its eyes. Uncomfortable, he turned away from it and looked at Lorena, who had her lips pressed to an empty space, leaving a red ring. He listened when she whispered, "Vous êtes mon inspiration." And he waited while she dissolved into a world that was all her own.

The skies darkened with an imminent storm and the cold December wind blew the leaves around their feet. Lorena took Ron's hand once again and led him through the solid black gates through which they had entered the Père-Lachaise Cemetery, the oppressive heaviness lifting from him and the lightness of her memories moving her along. They hurried into the refuge of a café as the raindrops started to fall, where they ordered strong coffee and croissants and, for the first time, openly spoke of their lives.

"Beatrice was three months along when I met her. Her husband -- late husband, I guess -- was in the RAF. They said he got shot down somewhere over Germany. His plane crashed and burned. There was no sign of him. She was only a few weeks pregnant when she found out. I don't know why I married her, really. I just did. I wish I could say that something deep down told me to, but I just sort of jumped."

"I can't say I know how that feels," Lorena said, staring into her wavy reflection in the cup.

"What about Parker Hollis?" Ron asked before taking a bite of his pastry.

"Oh," she said. Goosebumps appeared on her arms and her legs, and luckily, Ron was too busy looking at her lips to notice. "That doesn't count."

"How doesn't it count?"

"That was self-defense."

"Exactly. That was jumping."

Lorena sighed and raised the white, bone china cup to her lips. "Perhaps."

They drank and ate in silence, the both of them listening to the conversations around them (some of which Ron couldn't understand a word of), to the rain on the concrete, and to the sound of each other's breathing. Lorena set the cup down and touched her napkin to her mouth, her eyes drifting toward the open door. Ron followed her dreamy gaze, wondering; just wondering.

"Lorena…" he began.

"Yes, Ron?"

He paused, debating. "Tell me about your mother."

Lorena's eyes flicked back casually to his face, a motion so quick that it was almost unnerving. She wanted to ask him why, but knew almost instantly that it would be useless. The word, "because," was likely to be the next thing out of his mouth if she uttered that simple, three-lettered inquiry and she desperately wanted to spare herself the aggravation of hearing it.

So, instead, she leaned back in her chair, against the decorative metal back (most Parisian-like), and asked, "What do you want to know?"

* * *

Lilla Fanciullo was born in 1896 a village not far from Palermo in Sicily. Her father worked as a messenger for Don Luciano Petrillo, a job that paid good and supported a growing family of five. At the age of nine, Lilla's mother died in childbirth, leaving her, the oldest, to raise the rest (including the infant that had survived). But by the age of eighteen, Lilla had lost two brothers, a sister, and her father (the latter only a month after her last birthday in Italy). The don, who had admired Giovanni Fanciullo for his hard work and loyalty, took pity on the two remaining children and paid a hefty sum for their passage to America. In 1914, Lilla and her nine-year-old sister Sophia found themselves in Boston, Massachusetts: alone, scared, and unable to speak the language of the people around them.

Lilla took the extra money that the don had given them and paid for three months' rent for a small room in a bordering house in the North End, where all the Italian immigrants went. In the summer of 1914, Lilla took a job as a seamstress, patching and altering men's shirts. She worked for mere pennies, day in and day out, not bothering to complain (no one could understand her broken English anyhow). Autumn came, then winter (when she lost her young sister to pneumonia), then the new year, and then spring. And the spring of 1915 proved to be a break for nineteen-year-old Lilla Fanciullo, with her dark eyes and her dark hair and her dark skin and her dark, broken heart.

Charles Gerald Carlyle, CEO of LC Glass Co., had been to all of the best seamstresses in Boston and each one of them had failed him. One of the floor managers, a bullish man named Giuseppe Curiali, had mentioned a tiny shop in the North End who were, besides dirt cheap, the absolute best. At first Charles dismissed it, but it had seemed that the more money he had spent, the more unsatisfied he had been. So, Charles took the suggestion of the floor manager and, on a bright April morning, found himself walking into a dark little building, filled with sewing machines and needles and pins and fabric and women who were beyond shocked to see him there.

"Mr. Carlyle," Angela Antonella, the owner, cried in a thick Boston accent, jumping a mile in her own skin. "Sit down, sir. Would you like a cup of coffee, sir? What can we do for ya, sir?"

"I need these shirt sleeves hemmed desperately and no one else in this city appears to be capable of doing so correctly, but I have heard that you and your associates are particularly skilled."

"Yes, yes, sir," Angela said, nodding although she had no idea what the man had just said. Based on his tone, though, she assumed that "Yes, sir," was the right reply. "Maria, get the spools on those machines. Lilla, get Mr. Carlyle's measurements."

Lilla nodded, her motions fluid and graceful, unlike the women around her that rushed and ran and crashed into each other. Lilla took the tape measure and stretched it along the length of Charles' thick arm, then removed the pencil from behind her ear and wrote down a number. Charles watched her, intrigued. He was 40-years-old at the time and had been in charge of LC Glass for many, many years. And for those many, many years, everyone he knew had been nagging and pushing him to find a wife and raise a family. _This girl may be the one._

"Hello," he said, his voice just above a whisper.

Lilla did not stop her work, but looked at him with her large, round eyes and smiled. "Hello," she said, her accent heavy in the single word.

From then on, Charles Carlyle stopped into the shop more and more and bought extra long shirts and pants just as an excuse to see his darling Lilla again. He would take her on long walks, out to lunch, out to dinner, to the movies, to brunch, to church, to his home. By the winter of 1915, Lilla Fanciullo had become Lilla Carlyle, wife and mother-to-be.

It turned out, though, much to Charles' surprise, Lilla Fanciullo and Lilla Carlyle were not two different women. True, Lilla Carlyle was more educated, had less of an accent, and was a part of the major Boston social scenes, but she was also strong, hard working, witty, and every bit as tempestuous as Lilla Fanciullo had been. And Lilla Carlyle refused to let her Italian roots die with her family's name.

"Lorenzo. Lorenzo Liam Carlyle. For my brother and your father. I think that is a fair compromise don't you?"

"I do, my love. But I surely regret teaching you that word."

Her son was spoken to in English and Italian from the time he was born, ensuring that he would learn both. Charles argued that French was more practical, but Lilla gazed at him with cold eyes and her husband didn't bring the subject up again until their children were older. And as much as Lilla had advocated that her son learn to speak Italian, she was adamant that her daughter, her pride and joy, know it better.

"Our little Lorena must be brilliant, Charles."

"Lorena?"

"Yes. Lorena Giovanna. For _her _brother and _my _father."

"Another fair compromise."

Lilla and Charles watched their children grow, watched them laugh and love, watched them run around Paris and Rome and London. They watched Lorenzo graduate salutatorian and prepare for Harvard. But before they both got the chance to watch Lorena set the world on fire, Lilla became sick… too sick. Lorena, only sixteen, saw her mother deteriorate right before her eyes and saw her father go crazy with grief.

On her deathbed, Lilla took her daughter's freckled hands into her clammy tan ones and smiled. "Lorena," she said, "I want you to promise me something. I want you to promise that you will be strong when you feel pain. That you will carry on. And not for me or for your brother or for your father, but for you, bella mia. You must promise to be strong for you. Because when you can be strong for your own self, you can handle the pain and the hurt. You can do more than get through a day. You can thrive in it and you can make a life out of it, not just an existence. Promise me, Lorena. Promise me…"

* * *

"So, I promised and I tried to keep it the best I could," she said in a calm, steady voice, although she was suffocating from the tears on the inside.

"Then what happened?" Ron asked, holding out a cigarette.

Lorena took it and lit a match. "I got married and I forgot. I wasn't strong for her, for me, for anyone… not even my baby."

Ron's cup dropped to the table with a crash, spilling onto the floor and splashing his boots. Lorena suddenly felt out of breath, as though all of the air had been sucked from the room. She passed her napkin to Ron and watched as he wiped the coffee away, his eyes wild. Thunder crashed and rain poured; the world was listening to her mind, her body, her soul. Crashing and pouring, crashing and pouring. Ron looked down at his hands with a new sense of what stupid felt like. _A kid? She's got a kid? She's been here for months and she didn't say anything until now. What the fu--_

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice cracking. _Don't cry. They know how to hurt you if they see you cry._ "I don't usually speak so candidly about it. I don't know why I said anything."

"It's not like you should have to hide it."

Lorena raised her head to look at him. "I shouldn't?"

"No," he said, making eye contact as well. "You've got a kid. So what?"

Lorena scoffed and then shuddered as a single, cold tear fell and raced down her cheek. "Ron, I think on two different trains of thought."

Ron stared at the tear, watching his reflection in the bare thread of emotion. He forced himself into the back of the chair, the metal leaving imprints on his skin. He wanted to push the table away, to take her in his arms and remove the shimmering streak with his lips, to kiss her until she agreed to let him inside of her fully, deeply, honestly. But he took deep breaths and sat rigidly in the chair, wanting to cry himself.

And, as usual, Lorena took his stiffness as rejection. She wiped the moisture away and swallowed hard. "You know," she began, "it's not important."

"No, it is." He was leaned forward, almost reaching for her. Then, he did something he never expected to do in his lifetime, he pleaded. Yes, Ron Speirs pleaded… with a drowning woman in a Paris café. "Please, Lorena. It is."

Crash. Crash. Crash. Pour. Crash. _Please. _"I found out I was pregnant in the summer last year and I was terrified. I knew I was never going to be able to leave Parker once he found out. He'd never let me out of his sights ever again. The more time went on, the more I started resenting the thing growing inside of me until I hated it. I absolutely hated it, but then I felt this strange fluttering and I was in love. I was in so love."

Her vision clouded. Water splashed into her coffee and soaked her croissant.

"Then, one day, Parker came home angry about something. I don't remember what. All I remember is tumbling down the stairs. I had bruises. I had a few cracked ribs. I had a fractured wrist. But what I didn't have anymore was a baby. That man took everything from me. He just took everything. He took her."

Lorena, who had only been crying up until that point, started to feel as though the walls were closing in on her. Her breaths became more labored. Her heart raced. Her pain felt immensely real. Ron threw a few coins on the table and went over to her, placing his hands on her upper arms to help ease her out of the chair. But his hands on her body only made the panic attack more severe. _I was pregnant, Parker. You killed her. You took her from me. And now it's only right that I take something from you. _She pushed Ron away and into a neighboring table.

"Don't touch me, you bastard. Don't touch--" She swayed and went limp.

Ron grabbed her by the arms, much like he did the night she finally learned his name. He found her bag and slung it over his shoulder, then slipped his arm beneath her knees, cradling her against his body.

"Pardon," he said to the crowd before turning and walking out of the door into the lessening rainstorm.

Ron pushed through the throng of umbrellas and stares to a cab stand, a stoic expression on his American face. He slid Lorena's cold, wet body into the backseat and ignored the look he received from the driver.

"15 Place Vendôme," he said, calm and slow .

"Oui," the man said, his voice shaking.

Ron leaned back and sighed. He turned his head lazily and watched Lorena breathing calmly. He stretched out his arms and ran his fingertips over the smooth, silver scar at the base of her neck. He pushed a drenched lock of hair out of her face, revealing a new web of metallic blemishes. His eyebrows narrowed and he pushed the curls back into place, getting the feeling that she was hiding them for a reason.

Ron lifted her lifeless hand to his mouth and pressed his lips against it, knowing that was about as far as he was ever going to get with Lorena Giovanna Carlyle.

* * *

Ta da! Reviews are love.


	9. My Love Goes Free

**A/N: **Here comes the real story of Parker's death. Major spousal abuse, semi-graphic. Lots of foul language. But, I must admit, Lorena was a lot fun to write in this chapter and I hope you enjoy her psychosis as much as I do. I also want to thank everyone who has reviewed so far. I don't say often enough how much I appreciate it. Even to those who don't review but add this to their favorite or alert list, thanks! And I've added links to all of the chapter titles to spread the twisted love of music that I have (edit: all the links have been fixed, sorry 'about that).  
(www . youtube . com/watch?v=jfzoqjWW_pU)

Inspired by Jon Foreman and Dorothy Parker's poem "Sanctuary."

* * *

**IX. My Love Goes Free  
**_she's beautifully composed  
a tune that only caged birds know_

April 1941  
Boston, Massachusetts

When her children asked her what her wedding was like, Lorena wasn't sure if she'd be able to answer. By the time she had to walk down the aisle, she had tipped back a bottle of champagne with her bridesmaids and was too elated to think straight. Her father kept her straight, until Parker took a hold of her hand and helped steady her tipsy body. He gave her a knowing smirk and turned toward the preacher, ready to repeat those proverbial words. Lorena, although paying enough attention to get through the ceremony without a blunder, was in another world.

Parker Hollis, with his perfect nose and kissable lips and impossible blue eyes, was going to be her husband, her own, to love and to cherish 'til death parted them. At times, she wondered if she, a half breed, was worthy of him. But it only took a few seconds of listening to Lorenzo talk to remind her that it was the other way around.

"There's just something about that guy I don't like. I think it's the way he talks to you sometimes…"

But there Lorena was, despite her brother's dislike, marrying Parker Lee Hollis: a man who was often too perfect for words.

* * *

December 1944  
Paris, France

Ron was in the salon, reading a newspaper, when Lorena finally woke up. Breakfast had been over for hours and brunch was just about finished. Tea was in an hour. She had missed an entire day. She stumbled out of her room, engulfed in one of the hotel's thick robes, her hair tousled from a restless sleep. She plopped down next to him on the sofa and stared, ashamed, at her hands. Lorena had no recollection of Ron removing her clothes, putting her in the robe, and putting her to bed. But she could distinctly remember the reason she had lost consciousness in the first place and exactly where to begin with her apology.

"Ron, I'm sorry for my outburst. I don't know what's wrong with--"

"Stop apologizing, Lorena. I don't want to you. I don't need you to. It's fine."

"It doesn't seem fine," she said.

He looked at her sharply. "Why can't you let it go? I said it's fine, so just let it be fine. You don't see me getting upset over it, do you?"

Lorena scoffed. "No, not at all."

Ron sighed and crashed backwards into the sofa cushions. He wasn't so good at not knowing things. In fact, it pissed him off. And he wanted to know everything about Lorena Carlyle, especially after seeing the body that she hid beneath layers of US Army green. But it wasn't his style to go running after a woman and with time, Lorena would be his. She had told him of her child. If that wasn't trust, Ron didn't know what was. It wasn't new for people to have faith in Ron. Many men trusted him with their lives. His superiors trusted him to lead said men into battle. His wife trusted him enough to want him to raise her child. But the trust of a person like Lorena Carlyle was new to him. What she was giving was more than a life, but instead, she was giving him knowledge; secrets, ones that she had not spoken of in a long time. She had been silent for so long and Ron was sure that she would have continued to be silent had the dogs of war not barked and bayed. Because war, _la guerre_, did funny things to people. Ron found himself taking more risks. Life wasn't about surviving anymore. It was about accomplishing something and taking out a few Krauts along the way. He was going to be a father and a provider to a woman and child who need one. He was going to be a leader to soldiers, an enemy to Germans. He was going to be the one to bring Lorena out of her complex, well-constructed shell.

The problem, though, was Lorena couldn't understand why she trusted the lieutenant. He was the kind of man that jumped, that took chances. He was not someone to tell one's deepest, darkest secrets to, but she found herself unloading her burdened mind onto him, relinquishing the weight of the years into his strong, capable hands. Yet, she still felt so stifled by her own insecurities and past failures that she couldn't enjoy that notion.

"This isn't a matter of whether or not you forgive me, Ron. It's a matter of explaining something to you."

"And what would that be?"

"I've never told anyone about her before. Not my brother. Not my father. The cat only knew because she eavesdrops."

Ron gave his typical half-smile while admiring the way that the cushions settled around her hips. "So, what are saying, Lorena? You trust me or something?"

"Or something, yes."

As she spoke, he noticed a new depth to her eyes. Beyond the sadness and determination, a hint of freedom sparked. War had liberated Lorena. In a world torn by incivility, she no longer felt the oppressive need to adhere to graciousness and polite gestures. In a socially uncharted world, she could be truly free.

"We're in the same boat, so to speak. I've heard what the men say about you. You've heard what the men say about me. I'm two different people in one body, stuck in one reality. Do you know what I mean?"

Ron shook his head. "No. Not at all." He was lying. He knew exactly what she meant. He just liked hearing her talk, especially when she was being philosophical.

"There's the Lorena Carlyle that I think I am. Then there's the Lorena Carlyle that everyone else thinks I am. Two people. One body. See? We're in the same exact boat."

Ron smirked. "We're not even in the same body of water. I'm the same person that everyone else thinks I am."

"And who is that, Ron?" she asked, her hair falling further into her eyes.

He didn't answer.

Lorena smiled and started to laugh. "You think you're murderer, don't you? Some escaped mental institution inmate with a gun? Oh, wow. You actually do. Okay, fine. Then you're who you and everyone else thinks you are and you're who I think you are."

"Who do you think I am, Lorena?"

"I think," she began, smiling, "that you are the kind of man that is willing to raise a child that is not his own. The kind of man who is willing to put your life on the line for his country. Who is willing to risk what little may be left of his reputation to talk to someone like me. That's the kind of man you are, Ron. You're better than whatever you think you are. Of course, if you're willing to sit back and accept that you're some no good prick who kills for sport, then maybe I'm wrong. But I usually never am anymore."

* * *

May 1941  
Atlanta, Georgia

True, she had only known Parker for a year, but Lorena assumed that 365 days was plenty of time to get well-acquainted with someone enough to marry them. She was wrong. In fact, she was beyond wrong. She was desperately, gravely mistaken.

Lorena had been called many derogatory names in her short lifetime, as had the rest of her family. Her father was a mick and one of them Catholic fucks, even though he was Protestant. Her mother had been a gold digger and an immigrant whore. Lorena and Lorenzo were wops, goombas, and guinea brats. So maybe, at that point, she was relatively used to being considered inferior by others, despite all of her wealth and class and used to insulting slang. But the things she heard on her first day -- no, first hour -- in the South, astounded her. And the way Parker was shouting was worse.

Only once had he lost his temper: an African-American waiter had spilt tea on his shoes. Lorena had assumed that it was because they were handmade Italian leather, but she was slowly learning that it was the man's race that angered her new husband more.

"Don't give me that superior attitude, honey. Just because you have money doesn't mean you're some damn humanitarian. Don't even tell me I married some crazy ass abolitionist? I'll divorce you right now if that's the case. I'll take all your damn money and leave you homeless in the street with all your little black friends, got it? I love ya, honey. I don't want you to be known as the crazy Yankee bitch who used to be my wife, so just don't talk about it anymore. That's the way things are down here and that's the way this are gonna be in my house. And you might as well get used to it 'cause there isn't a single hired hand named Winston or Jeeves in this part of the country, honey. Not a single one…"

She gripped the car door handle until her knuckles were white with the pressure, full of fear and anxiety. Her future began to look very bleak.

* * *

December 1944  
Paris, France

If anything, the time in Paris had fully convinced Ron that rich people were insane. The high tea ritual, for example, was an asinine excuse for them to sit around and gossip and drink hot water. The sandwiches were too small and the cups were too tiny for his big hands. Even Lorena thought it was stupid, which was why she spent much of the hour looking out the window toward the gardens, toward an exit.

Ron cleared his throat of the rose petal that he practically inhaled and fingered the hand-painted floral design on the saucer. "We've still got tonight. Is there anything else?"

"Well, you've seen the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the Arc de Triumph, Notre Dame, the Opéra Garnier… oh, I know! There's a place just outside of Paris that I want you to see. It will be a story to bring home to your family that no other soldier in the 101st will have."

"Where?" he asked.

She was smiling, grinning, yet again. "I'll only give you one hint: a treaty from the first world war was made there."

"Versailles?"

"The Château de Versailles, to be precise. Do you think you will be able to handle it?"

Ron scoffed. It was a museum. What was so intimidating about a museum? He thought that the entire cab ride there, the entire walk up to the gates. As soon as they stepped inside, though, Ron felt his heart stop. He had never been floored by a place before. Sure, the Ritz had made him feel small, but Versailles made him feel insignificant. He was dwarfed by the Hall of Mirrors, impoverished by the grandiosity of the royal apartments, and emasculated by the heroic statuary in the gardens. Even in the Petit Trianon, where Marie-Antoinette had found sanctuary from the court he had been told, Ron felt impossibly pathetic. Yet, Lorena was in her element. She spoke at length about the history of each area, about the significance of each piece of furniture, about the person in each painting. And as the sun set on their last evening in Paris, Lorena leaned against a Corinthian column in the Temple of Love, just across the water from the queen's retreat, and smiled contently. She didn't know why, but being at Versailles was something akin to being home.

She had spent days in Versailles throughout much of her childhood and adolescence. Lorena often imagined herself in one of those wide skirts, the fabric rustling as she walked through the gardens and the corridors. She could taste the rich food on her tongue, smell the perfume of white roses, hear the operatic music from the theatre. But then her imagination would recede and the memories would intervene: her mother speaking of the Roman gods that the salons were named after, her father rowing the boat down the grand canal, her brother chasing her through the labyrinth. Mostly clearly, though, she could see her parents standing close together, their arms intertwined, in the Temple. Lorena knew, just by watching them, that what they had was true love.

"I'm afraid I might be enjoying this more than you, Ron," she said, in the middle of her reverie. "It's like some sort of spell comes over me."

"It suits you, this place. Maybe-- no, never mind."

Lorena turned to him, still grinning. "What is it?"

"I was just thinking that maybe, in another life, you lived here. Hell, you could have been Marie-Antoinette even. It makes sense, from what you've told me. She was an outsider, everyone blamed her for the things that went wrong in her marriage and their country. Sounds like you."

"Yes, except when I was led to the scaffold, I escaped the guillotine," she said, rubbing the back of her neck.

Only the two of them remained in the Temple, the warm orange light of the descending sun casting an ardent glow. The bareness of the trees, while stark, provided a clearer view of the sky and an openness that was almost symbolic. The statue of Cupid, its hands clasped tight around its bow, watched them intently. Lorena watched Ron's shadow as he walked closer to her on the checkered marble tile, his gait masculine and strong. He stood close to her, so she could feel his warm breath against her forehead, and waited for her eyes to meet his. Lorena inhaled, smelling the soap he had used that morning and the rose tea he had drank before. She finally looked at him and felt the crushing weight of desire on her chest, on her stomach, on her shoulders, on her legs. She cursed her body for the ache that pulsed through it, for betraying what her mind wanted. And Ron could feel the extra heat that she was producing, could see it on her cheeks. He wondered if she was just nervous about him being so close or if she too felt the same irrepressible need that raced in his blood stream every time she sighed and her breasts heaved or her tongue would dart out to moisten her lips. When he finally spoke again, though, he didn't think about any of that.

"What did you do to him?" Ron asked, his voice a paradox of hard and gentle.

Lorena, while overwhelmed by his closeness and his scent and his handsome face, was tired of lying. With the setting sun in her darkening eyes and Cupid's discerning gaze as a witness, she finally spoke freely, letting the cold, winter air take her confession into the ears of the only person outside the law who had ever bothered to ask.

* * *

August 1943  
Atlanta, Georgia

Lorena hadn't been into _The Constitution_ office in two weeks. To McGalahan, it was the flu that had kept her away. To Parker, it was the cracked ribs that needed to heal. To the cat, the little black stray that she had raised from a kitten and named Vienna, it was depression that would have people suspicious if she were out and about. To herself, it was pure hate that would translate into everyone wanting her locked away in an asylum somewhere.

She could remember the moment that she suspected she had lost the baby. Her body, bruised from smashing against the wooden stairs, was crumpled on the floor at the base. Only minutes after, she felt cramping, something she tried to tell herself was associated with the fall, but as soon as the bleeding began the next day, she knew what she had lost. Lorena had convinced herself before the fall that it was a girl, a daughter for her to raise and make strong like her mama had tried to do with her. But that dream was gone. It was all gone. It was another thing that Parker had taken from her. It was the last.

Lorena returned to work, her body only partially healed, but her mind full of hurt and pain and rage. McGalahan noticed no difference in her writing or her stamina. Parker was too self-absorbed to care. Little Vienna was the only one to recognize the change in her and often pressed against her leg in a seemingly desperate attempt to say, "Please, change your mind." But Lorena Giovanna Carlyle-Hollis had a plan and there was no going back.

Parker came home one evening, craving a whiskey in a high ball glass and his wife's taut body. When he walked in, there she was, his Lorena, lounging on the couch with a new copy of Vogue. She was wearing her best dress, an emerald green satin number that hugged her full breasts in all the right ways. Her nails, although manicured, were always free of that shiny shit that women put on themselves. Parker hated that stuff; a woman's hands should natural, not so polished. That night, though, her fingers and her toes were painted with a bright red lacquer to match her lips. Sometime during the day, he figured, she must have gone to a beauty parlor because her long black hair had been chopped off and styled into a short bob that laid in soft waves across one side of her face. Lorena threw her gaze, sultry and searing, toward him.

"Hello, darling. You're home late."

"What's with the get-up?" he asked before casting his briefcase and jacket aside.

"This old thing. It's been hanging in the closet forever. Here, darling, let me pour your drink for you," she said, smiling.

Parker raised his eyebrow and slumped down on the armchair. "You goin' somewhere tonight?"

Lorena filled the glass to the top. Parker was too cheap not to drink the whole thing. "Can't a woman look beautiful for her husband without raising suspicion? Honestly, Parker, you act like I'm the one who is prone to violence or infidelity."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked before taking a swig of Mr. Daniels.

"It means you're a fucking beast, darling," Lorena scoffed. "Normal women don't have to let themselves physically heal after an argument with their husbands."

She refilled his glass at least two times before he retorted.

"You ain't normal, sweet pea. You ain't never been normal."

"No shit," she said, her tone caustic. "Normal means wanting to wake up in the mornings. Normal means making love to a man, not being his personal sex device. Normal means not wanting to kill your own spouse. I'm so far from normal, it's fucking pathetic."

Parker stood, wobbling. He slapped her across her face, but she did not falter.

Without clutching her cheek, she turned her head back to face him. "But you know what's even more pathetic than me staying here and putting up with your shit? You. You're a thousand times more pathetic than I could ever imagine being. I know it's only because your dick is too small to even make a mouse orgasm, but you think a big shot like you would have more self-esteem than that. Do you really think that controlling me is going to make it grow, Parker? You've been doing this since our wedding day and, let me tell you something, it hasn't worked. In fact, I think beating me has made it shrink."

He grabbed her by the arms and shoved her against the wall. On any other day, Lorena would have looked away. She would have submitted to save herself from another bruise or broken bone. On any other day, she would not have spit in his face or shoved her knee into his crotch. On any other day, she wasn't nearly as pissed off.

"You fucking bitch," Parker slurred through gritted teeth.

Lorena took off running while she had the chance, toward the study, just where she knew she had to be. Parker caught up with her in the hall. He lunged forward, pulled her down by her ankle, and yanked her toward him. He straddled her, sitting on her empty abdomen, and held her wrists together with one hand.

"You crazy fucking bitch," he said, smashing the whiskey bottle he had grabbed from the parlor against the top of her head.

He pushed the broken ends into her collar bone and the base of her neck, causing her to scream. Lorena struggled underneath him, which only caused the bottle to break more and leave tiny fragments behind. Parker laughed as the tears streamed down her cheeks and began to pull up the hem of her glossy dress. As he did, she freed one of her legs and kicked her heeled foot, slicing open his sun-tanned face. Lorena crawled into the study and locked the door behind her. Parker crashed through it seconds later, only to find Lorena lying, practically motionless, behind the desk. He smiled as his wife looked up at him through squinted eyes. She swallowed hard and began to smile herself. Lorena pulled Parker's gun out from underneath her and grinned, her teeth gleaming bright white in the lamplight. Her husband's smile faded quickly.

"My, my, my. How the tables have turned," she said, her blood mixing with the sweat and tears on her face.

"You're not stupid enough to kill me, Lorena."

"No, but I am angry enough. And anger is a funny emotion, Parker."

Lorena shifted her weight and stood up, the gun aimed at his bloody face the entire time. For the first time, she held all the power, all the control. She was in charge and Parker was fearing for his life. She smiled manically.

"I'm tired, Parker. I'm incredibly tired. I haven't seen my family in two years. All I've had to look at is you and these fucking walls and this fucking town. Do you get what I'm saying? And the one escape from this damn world that I thought I'd have, my one chance to make things right in my life, and you take that away too." She paused to enjoy the terror that filled his ice-blue eyes. "I was pregnant Parker. You killed her. You took her away from me. And now it's only right that I take something from you."

A gunshot rang out. A body hit the floor. Parker Hollis, mercantile extraordinaire and entrepreneur, took his last jagged gasps of peach-scented air and whispered the name of the woman he had tortured for far too long.

"Lorena…"

The house went still. The only noise Lorena could hear was her own breathing and the loud thumping of her heart. She walked over to Parker's body and nudged it with her foot. Blood gushed out of the hole in his chest and soaked into the white carpet, permanently staining it. She placed the gun on the desk, slid on top of it, and picked up the phone.

"Atlanta Police Department," she said calmly. "Yes, hello, my name is Lorena Hollis and my address is 121 Gatling Way. I've just shot my husband. He's dead but you may want to send the medics anyway."

Lorena placed the phone back down on the receiver, sighing. She jumped off the desk and stepped over the corpse, her foot sinking in the bloody floor. Lorena sat down on the sofa and reached for a pack of cigarettes. Vienna jumped up next to her and rubbed the top of her head against her mother's sweaty skin. Lorena smiled and pressed her lips, the color of the blood on her chest and cheek, against the cat's back and nuzzled her. She took a lighter from the coffee table and lit a cigarette. The nicotine rushed through her body and the smoke came out in a thick cloud from her nose.

And the rest, they say, was history.

* * *

"Say something," Lorena said after she finished her story. "Anything."

Ron, who had moved back to lean against a column, took one of his hands out of his pockets and straightened his garrison cap. His mind was frozen as her voice bounced around inside of it, trying to understand. _Say something._ Ron stepped toward her again and looked into the face of the Cupid statue.

"So, you let him beat you and then you shot him to make it look more like self-defense?"

"Yes."

"And you got away with this?"

"Clearly."

Ron stood in front of her and put his hands back in his pockets. "I understand."

Her eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "And?"

"'And,' what? I understand why you did it. What are you expecting, Lorena? Do you want me to call you a lunatic? Tell you that you're a vicious blood-thirsty murderer and you ought to be in jail? Do you want me to lie to you? I always knew that you were too strong for the whole thing to be some twist of fate. Only strong people can be in control of their own destinies and I never doubted for a second that you were one of them."

Lorena nodded and pursed her lips together. Ron watched as the muscles in her body relaxed one by one until she finally looked up at him, a new emotion swirling in her espresso-colored orbs. Without warning, she closed the gap between them and placed her hands on both sides of his face. Her breath was labored and her body was shaking. _Now or never_. Lorena pressed her lips against Ron's firmly. His eyes went wide with confusion and shock until her mouth moved against his for a second time. That time, Ron kissed her back and placed his hands on her hips, pulling her closer. Lorena's fingers dug into his scalp and her tongue ran along his smooth bottom lip, begging entrance. Never before had she done such a thing and never before had Ron had a woman make the first move. For him, it was a nice change. He was tired of being in charge all the time. Lorena felt overwhelmed and over clothed, until she felt the cold sensation of metal against the small of her back as Ron's hands snaked underneath her jacket and shirt. The gold band around his finger was a stark reminder of how fleeting it all was and as her thoughts raged, her hormones dwindled and she pulled away, panting.

"I'm sorry," she said. "We… I… I'm sorry."

She stepped out of his arms and walked toward the pathway toward the Petit Trianon. Ron stood, confused. He ran after her and touched the top of her arm, careful not to grab or pull.

"Lorena?"

"It's too soon. I can't."

And just like that, Ron felt Lorena slipping through his fingers yet again.

* * *

September 1943  
Atlanta, Georgia

The judge and the jury, thirteen white men altogether, looked at Lorena Hollis, watching her. A black and blue ring encircled her right eye. White bandages still covered most of her forehead, neck, and chest. They listened as neighbors and coworkers testified for the northerner: speaking of her history of bruises and limping and fear of her husband. They saw what was left of the Carlyle family, Charles and Lorenzo, shaking their heads in disbelief and anger. They saw the tears that rolled down Lorena's freckled half-Italian face when she spoke about that night. They knew, through the articles she wrote, that she was on the side of every working man. They pitied her. They saw their sisters and wives and mothers and daughters in her sad eyes.

"We, the members of the jury find the defendant, Lorena Hollis, not guilty of murder in the first degree."

Lorena sighed and smiled for the first time in seven months. _My land is bare of chattering folk / The clouds are low along the ridges / And sweet's the air with curly smoke / From all my burning bridges._

* * *

reviews are love.


	10. Rhythm of the Blues

**A/N: **This summer heat made it difficult for me to write about being cold. Next month: the Breaking Point. Thanks to everyone who reviewed and added as a favorite or alert. It means a lot.  
www . youtube . com/watch?v=ZcSxVNAAsTA

Inspired by Mary Chapin Carpenter and frozen margaritas with tequila shooters.**

* * *

**  
**X. Rhythm of the Blues  
**_i can't seem to fix what's broken  
like this record, baby, in my head_

Lorena hadn't seen much of Ron since their return from Paris and she often found Loneliness on her doorstep, trying to make friends again. The silent killer's vists had grown seldom since she had put on her uniform, but once she had opened herself to another man, one who wasn't particularly available, all of her old demons had returned. Anger, Failure, Guilt… one brought wine, the others brought cheese, and together, the whole gang threw a pity party. But just as she settled in with her tears and bottled up emotions, a knock came at her door, a fierce rapture that hurt her ears.

Ron twisted his garrison cap anxiously in his hands as he waited for Lorena to open the door. Not nervously, but anxiously. There was a distinct difference in his mind; the main one being, he was _not _the nervous type. Some other guys maybe- that Sobel fellow that had led Easy Company for a time, the kid he picked a fight with on his first day of high school, the preacher that had married him and Bea- but Ronald Speirs was not some other guys and no dame (not even Lorena _Giovanna_ Carlyle) was going to make him that way. When he saw her, though, standing in the entryway with a shirt that was unbuttoned enough to expose the tops of her full, flushed breasts, Ron lost all nerve. He forgot what he was supposed to tell her, what he had been sent to say. All he knew was her Italian bosom and black eyes and red lips, which he recalled tasted vehemently of raspberries and champagne. Then she spoke in her high-brow Boston accent and he went weak in the knees. _Has that happened before? Is that just fatigue? Are you really being that fucking pathetic? When did you get all fruity?_

"Yes?" Lorena asked.

It wasn't as though she hadn't noticed his nervousness - no, his anxiety - when she opened the door to him. Anyone could have seen it. The fact that he even bothered to shield it from her was an insult. He should have known better than that.

"We're moving out," Ron said, recovering from the shock of his own weakness.

"But it was supposed to be months before -"

"I know, but elements of the first and sixth SS Panzer got through the Ardennes and their sending the 101st in to hold the line," he said.

"Who was holding it before?"

"The twenty-eighth infantry and elements of the fourth. Apparently, they've taken a pretty bad hit."

Lorena nodded. She wasn't looking forward to what the paratroopers were about to get into. She wanted to head over to where Nixon was staying and get personal with his bottle of VAT 69, maybe make a few more mistakes in the process. It didn't help that she was premenstrual.

"Well, then, I suppose I should start packing up. I'll see you out there, Lieutenant," she said bitterly.

As Lorena began to close the door, Ron stuck his foot out, preventing her from closing it on his face. The anxiousness he felt disappear and was replaced with both anger and disbelief. "Lieutenant?" he asked. "Is that what I am to you now? Just another fucking lieutenant like Dike or Peacock or Compton?"

Lorena's eyes narrowed. "Don't you dare speak to me that way. Your wife might put up with that, but I certainly won't."

"My wife? Funny that you're thinking about my wife now. Something tells me you weren't thinking about her when you kissed me," Ron snapped, inching into the room.

"Of course, because you were so innocent that night. But for the love of God, Ron, it was just a kiss." she said. _Liar, liar._

"What are you telling me, Lorena? You mean it didn't mean a fucking thing to you?"

Ron was fully in the room then and completely in Lorena's face. It was a physical and verbal assault, and she could feel a tightening in her throat. Lorena began to push back. Whatever direction Ron was going in, she went the opposite until they were too close.

"It did, but I don't see why it has to mean everything right now," she said in a rather mordant tone.

"Because I was unfaithful, Lorena. I was unfaithful to my wife," he yelled, towering over Lorena and blocking out the light.

"And what if I had run into your arms the minute you showed up at the door, Ron? Would it have mattered whether or not you were unfaithful then? You're only angry now because I walked away and, honestly, I regretted it up until this moment."

Without another sound, Ron turned around and walked out the door, shutting it noiselessly behind him. Lorena crumpled to her knees, feeling as though all the air had been extracted from the room. Loneliness came up beside her and smiled.

"Good work, kid. You just made my job so much easier."

* * *

"What are you thinking about, Lorena?" Nixon asked from behind her.

He slid into her foxhole and pressed the flask of VAT 69 into her cold hand. It was the only thing they kept Lorena warm in Bastogne. That, and memories of the South in the summertime. Just thinking about the heat rising from the asphalt and the watery effect it created sent imaginary waves of soft warmth across her frozen skin.

"Honeymooning in Palm Beach," she said. "Warm sand, warm ocean water, and a cool cocktail. Something with rum and a little umbrella."

"Sounds peachy. You know, I've never been," he said, yawning. With his raw nose and ghastly white skin, he looked about as close to death as they all were. _How morbid._

"When this is done, and it will be done, you and I will buy one of those lovely Fords and take a road trip down the coast. We'll eat the best seafood and drink all the rum that we can get our rich little hands on."

"And bake in the sun?"

Lorena nodded. "Like bread in an oven."

She could see the skepticism in Nixon's eyes and read his expression of disbelief like a book. She knew, more than anyone, that her sudden bout of optimism was out of character, but if got her through the long days and the longer nights, she was willing to lie to herself. Of course, Lorena witnessed the ending of many things first hand, particularly lives. Everything had an expiration date and it was only a matter of time before the war ceased to exist. It wasn't really optimism. It was logic. Logic, memories, and booze… those were the things that kept her warm.

Deep down, she would have traded all three for Ron.

* * *

Lieutenant Norman Dike hated Lorena Carlyle just as much as she hated him, so when Christmas Day came, they exchanged nothing but harsh words.

"Miss Carlyle," he said, traipsing through the Ardennes like he owned it.

Lorena, who was having a perfectly good cup of cheer and a nice talk with Nixon and Harry Welsh, rolled her eyes at the sound of Dike's voice. She would have been lying if she said her Christmas wish were anything other than seeing him blown to pieces by German artillery. "Yes, Lieutenant Dike?"

"May I have a word with you? In private?"

"No, you may not. I am conducting an interview right now, but as soon as I am finished with my work, you and I can have a chat."

"Well, your work is specifically what I want to speak to you about, Miss Carlyle, so -"

Lorena raised her hand to stop him. Dike's mouth stayed open. Lorena assumed that it was the first time he had ever been silenced by a woman before. Inside, she was laughing. "You do understand that you requested my presence, Lieutenant? You did not demand it, though it wouldn't have mattered anyway, as you are not my superior. Nonetheless, I have declined your request, so the polite thing to do at this point in the conversation is to leave and return at a later time in which I am not preoccupied. Do I make myself crystal clear?"

Dike did not answer. He turned and stalked away, angrier than hornet. Satisfaction, pure and sweet, rippled through Lorena's body. She looked at Harry and Nixon, watching their shocked expressions give way to amusement. She took a sip of the spiked coffee from the metal cup and smiled pleasantly.

"You were saying, Lewis?"

Later on, while the Germans were serenading the Americans with "Silent Night," Norman Dike had a word with Lorena. Several, in fact. He rambled on for most of the time and she nodded politely, hoping that he was too oblivious to notice that she wasn't paying attention. Mostly, she was listening to the Benny Goodman tune that was playing on repeat in her head.

"I want to ask you to stop saying such salacious things about me, Miss Carlyle. I don't know if you are aware, but your column has been syndicated and now goes to every newspaper on the East Coast. My family reads the paper daily and are appalled by what they're seeing. They're threatening to sue."

The tune stopped.

"Honestly?" Lorena scoffed. "Haven't they heard about what happens when you try to sue a Carlyle? I don't mean to sound morose, but people have been known to disappear, become - how do I put this? - indisposed. It isn't actually a threat, Lieutenant; simply a fact. Yes, I do realize that I am syndicated. I'm thrilled about it actually. As for the grief that your family is suffering from, I know all too well about what it's like to pick up a newspaper and see horrible things about the people you love. That has been a part of my life since I could read. Unfortunately for you, though, the purpose of my column is to give the readers a glimpse into what is actually happening here in Europe, and what is happening _here_, Lieutenant, is that you are unfit to do your job. In my opinion, you couldn't lead ants to a picnic and you sure as hell cannot lead these men into battle. I fear for their lives if it ever comes down to that. But after all of my very open thinking, you're still here, so either the words of one little woman doesn't matter much or someone with the Brass thinks very highly of you. As far as I can tell, it doesn't matter, Lieutenant. I will never respect you the way you think you should be and you'll be CO of Easy until someone else comes along, so we are at a stalemate. I've accepted this and until you do, I'm afraid it's _your _problem, so deal with it or leave me alone."

Lorena walked away, annoyed and, some how, contented. She stopped mid-stride and turned on her heel, smiling. "Oh, by the way, Lieutenant Dike, the last man that called me 'Miss Carlyle' like that ended up dead. I suggest you call me Lorena."

That time, it was a threat.

* * *

"Lew?" she called out quietly.

"We're over here," she heard him say. "We're in the dell."

Lorena's eyebrows knitted together in confusion. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and ducked under a hanging branch. Dick Winters, Harry Welsh, Lieutenant Peacock and Lewis Nixon were huddled together around a small fire. She inhaled the aroma and found herself getting closer to the warmth, against what could be considered her better judgment.

"I thought smelt wood burning. I just assumed Harry was thinking too hard again," Lorena said, kneeling down beside Peacock.

"Oh, har har, real funny Carlyle," Harry said, shivering.

"I thought so," Dick said. He gave her a wink and a smile, one of those you're-alright-in-my-book kind. "What did Dike have to say?"

"Nothing important. Apparently his family isn't thrilled about me calling him Il Duce and joking about his phone habits. He says they want to sue me, as if I actually give a damn," she said with a wave of her hand.

"Sue a Carlyle? Are they nuts?" Nixon asked. "How many people have died because of that?"

"Not sure. I've lost count. Mama had a lot of friends in high places. After she died, they stayed loyal out of respect to her."

"They?" Peacock asked. "You mean- ?"

"Mafioso," Lorena and Nixon said in unison, both nodding. "That's how things are done in Boston. Explains a lot, doesn't it?" Lorena said with a smirk.

Then a whining noise came from above them and the five looked up. Lorena dove down and away from the flashes from the mortar rounds that came tumbling down. Somewhere behind her, Harry began screaming. He had been hit. Dick reached him first as Lorena called out for a medic. Eugene wasn't far; she had passed on her way. The rounds were falling everywhere and they sounded like drums, pounding. Nixon was on the radio, alerting headquarters.

"Roe!" Dick shouted, but still the medic was absent from the scene.

Lorena stood quickly and ran. Spina, the other medic, and Babe Heffron from South Philadelphia were already pulling at Eugene by the time she got to his foxhole. She pushed both of them aside and leaned down into the ditch-like trench. "Eugene, cherie," she said, the French word rolling off of her tongue. "_Get up. We need you. Get up now."_

"_I can't. I don't want to see anymore men dying. I'm tired. I'm done._"

"_He's calling for you, Eugene. You have to get up. You can either do it on your own or I can drag you. It will look rather embarrassing that way, but I'm willing, so get moving._"

Eugene stood, shaking, and ran with her, back to where the men were scrambling to keep Harry calm. For a moment, he stood there, watching. Lorena waited for him to make a move.

"_You can handle one more. I'll be right beside you_," she said calmly.

She heard the slight intake of breath before he went over to Harry and began working his magic. Lorena held Harry's shoulders as the morphine kicked in, relaxing him. He shuddered beneath her hands and released a ragged sigh. The jeep pulled up and the driver, dressed in multiple layers of warm winter clothing, rushed over. Lorena glared at him.

"Eugene," Dick said over the noise, "go get yourself a hot meal. Lorena, you too."

She nodded. She didn't want to, though. She didn't feel like she could leave, like she should leave. Lorena felt dirty as she hopped into the back of the jeep, overwhelmed with guilt and anxiety. Acid rose in her throat and she swallowed it down. Her eyes watered as they got closer to Bastogne and the drumming grew louder instead of fainter as it usually did. The smoke and fire in the night air painted everything a remarkable golden color. Lorena would have admired it if she wasn't so horrified. She also probably would have been warmed by the heat of the flames, but the collapsed buildings and body parts that the jeep passed on its way to the aid station chilled her more than she expected.

When they finally stopped moving, Lorena looked up. A tear rolled down her cheek and before she could wipe it away, they were off again, into the war-weary night…

* * *

Lorena had gotten plenty of letters while covering the front that would be known as the Battle of the Bulge, many of which asked about being off of the front line.

_I am rarely off of the front, as the boys and the Germans give me plenty to do here, but on occasion, I accompany Eugene Roe to the aid station in the city of Bastogne. Eugene, Easy Company's medic, hails from Louisiana and, being half-Cajun, speaks the most beautiful French that I have ever heard. Even in Paris, nothing compares to the twang that resides in his accent. Too often, I find myself lost in it and I begin to miss the South, in all of her glory. (You see, even a Yankee can appreciate southern culture.)_

_Usually, we scrounge for medical supplies like dogs, hoping to receive morphine or bandages; anything we can beg for, we take. That is the way that society works in wartime: you take what you can get and you don't gripe about it. The farther one gets from the front line, though, the more the rules are enforced. Out there, the only rule is watch the line, do as your told, and trust the man in the foxhole next to you. Out there, everything is black and white, kill or be killed; but as the booming of the mortars shelling the trees grows muffled, life becomes murky and the trust disappears. The crumbling city of Bastogne is a testament to that. Jeeps zoom past groups of women, huddled together as they try to stay warm; bodies and their belongings pile up along the broken walls. The Bastogne I see, the one many in the States might see in pictures in magazines and newspapers, is a shadow. _

_Eugene agrees with me, in perfect French, then often leaves to converse with the Belgium nurse, who tries tirelessly to save another American life. Her hands are caked in blood and her brow shows a hint of perspiration, even in the winter air, but she continues. I have caught myself staring time and time again, amazed at her resilience. We have spoken only once, the nurse and I; something I regret. Just yesterday, we discovered that the building was destroyed by the Germans and no survivors were recovered. _

_So, yes, readers, I do get away from the front line, but I prefer not to leave._

* * *

On another foggy, dreary morning in the Ardennes, a jeep rumbled through to deliver a thin envelope to Lorena. When she rose from her foxhole, the one she was sharing with Bull, she was expecting yet another letter, postmarked Atlanta, GA. What was actually given to her shocked her.

"They're sending me to Paris," she told Nixon and Dick, who were both poured over maps. The two stopped midway into their pointing and stared up at her.

"What? Who? Why?" Nixon blurted out.

"I think you forgot a few, Nix. If you want to work those in -"

"You and I definitely need to spend less time together. I'm wearing off on you. I mean it. You're going to go back to Pennsylvania and be -"

Lorena stepped up to the table. "Boys, I'm sorry to interrupt your adorable banter, but -"

"Right," Dick said, laying a weight down on one of the maps. "So, who is 'they' and why are they sending you to Paris?"

"Particularly when there's a war going on?"

"Someone in Washington. I'm still not sure who. The name sounds familiar, but that's not important. The 'why' is much easier to answer. Apparently, certain higher powers have decided that I need a break, that my writing is getting a little too dark. The letter specifically said that if I do not comply, I will be forced to. Sounds a bit fascist to me, but who am I to judge?"

"What higher powers, exactly?" Nixon asked.

Lorena sneered. "Not so much powers, exactly. More like one power."

"Your father talked the U.S. Government into forcing you to take a break in Paris? I have _got _to meet this man," Nixon said with a half-drunken smile. Lorena just shook her head.

"I don't know what to do," she said.

"Doesn't look like you have much of a choice, Lorena. All you can do is enjoy your break. I'm sorry to say, but I wish Dike were going with you," Dick said.

He looked like hell. They all did, really, so it wasn't that she didn't want the break. She knew that she didn't _need_ it, though. Ninety-nine percent of the battalion maybe, but not Lorena. So even when a letter came from Paris, she wasn't anymore convinced or thrilled. The stationary was from the Ritz, she would know it anywhere, and the handwriting definitely belonged to her father.

_Lorena, I know this is far-fetched, but I beg of you, be reasonable. You are my youngest child and my only daughter. I have not heard from your brother in ages and my anxiety grows each day. I cannot bring him home and away from harm, but I can keep you safe for the moment. I did not do my job in the past and I suppose that I am hoping to make up for it. I imagine you are rolling your eyes while reading this and I know it sounds ridiculous, but as your father, I have earned the right to be such. Do not fight the officers who come to retrieve you. I will see you in Paris on Tuesday. Love, Father._

Lorena crumpled the paper and threw on the frozen ground. It was Monday. They would be coming for her soon, like wardens for a prisoner on death row. She had escaped a cage twice: the hypothetical one that she called marriage and the literal one that was the women's prison. There wasn't going to be a break for the third. As she brooded and pouted, Lorena walked and listened to the crunch of the snow under her feet. Too consumed with her own thoughts, she ignored others around her and collided, once again, with a solid, warm chest. _Déjà vu…_

"Lorena," Ron said apathetically. "What are you doing this far from the line?"

"Clearing my head," she told him, forcing herself to look him in the eye. "I'm leaving for a while."

"Stateside?"

"Paris. My father is there now."

Ron nodded. It was typical, really. There were no words and nothing that either of them could say to make the situation less awkward. She tugged at the loosening fingers of her gloves and he stood ramrod straight in front of her. Ron thought that maybe standing there with the same militaristic façade that he used in front of the men, in front of his wife. With Lorena, under different circumstances, he could be more relaxed, but tension had grown like a poisonous weed between them. Her rejection, no matter the cause, had stung and no man came back from that quickly, especially not men like Ron Speirs. Besides, he had been weak around her, careless, out of control… _and it felt so fucking good._ He ran his tongue over his wind-chapped lips, trying to remember the taste of her lips. _Raspberries and champagne._

"Have a cup of champagne for me," he said.

Lorena nodded and stepped around him, careful not to touch him again.

* * *

Three pairs of footsteps made their way through the thick underbrush to Lorena's foxhole. It was close to the line and the men that had been sent to collect her were nervous. Lorena didn't notice any facial features, just their massive bodies and how rigid their muscles were beneath their heavy coats.

"How can I help you, gentlemen?"

"Are you Lorena Carlyle?" the tallest one asked.

"Only if you have an extra coat like that somewhere," she said. Lorena didn't like being fetched like a stick by a couple of bulldogs. The fact that her father conducted the situation showed no consideration and it pained her.

The shorter one spoke up first. "There's one in the jeep, Miss Carlyle."

"Fantastic," she said. Lorena reached for her canvas bag until one of the men stopped her and slung it over his own shoulder. She glanced at him with a sneer and clambered out of the foxhole, ignoring Tall Man's outstretched hand. As the four of them walked, she received singular nods and a few dirty looks. Nixon smiled and Dick waved. "Good luck," she mouthed over her shoulder as the shortest, heaviest man hustled her into the backseat.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Ron standing near one of the shelled half-trees. Lorena turned her head just slightly to look upon him, maybe for the last time, but he was gone before she got the chance. The vehicle lurched forward beneath her out of the woods towards Paris, where she was sure to lose whatever was left of her mind.

* * *

reviews are things of beauty.


	11. She Bangs the Drums

**A/N:** And we're done with Bastogne! Thank you to Roossmit for pointing out the sudden 180 Lorena did in the last chapter. I did some editing and hopefully got her back to her old self. There's a lot of ramblings in this chapter, tons of self-evaluations.  
As a side note, I know I should finish this story before I even think about another one, but I have one in the works right now. I'm getting all the kinks out now, that way I'll be able to post without editing and without having too many long breaks between posts. Still sticking to my once-a-month post for the current one, though.  
Thank you for all the support. It's much appreciated. Enjoy!  
www . youtube . com/watch?v=2qTyAI99tBE

Inspired by The Stone Roses and documentaries on HBO.**

* * *

**

**XI. She Bangs the Drums  
**_the past was yours  
__but the future's mine_

Lorena sat stiffly in her satin gown and lace elbow-length gloves as a heavy-set French man serenaded the audience from the stage below her. Box seats at the Opéra Garnier… when her father had whisked her away from Belgium, she hadn't known that he meant to torture her. There was nothing that she disliked more in formal society than the opera. Particularly at that moment since every time the percussionist rolled his mallet on the timpani, she fought the urge to take cover. Her father, who she barely recognized at times, took notice and placed a hand on her knee. She tensed and continued to stare out across the room. A man, somewhere in his thirties and clearly a bachelor, in the box opposite to them smiled at her. Lorena simply averted her eyes. She was already committed to an entire battalion of men, one of which she felt too intensely about. The cymbals crashed and she jumped in her red velvet seat. She closed her eyes and inhaled, hoping to take in the unique aroma that the world-famous opera house had, but instead, her nose filled with the harsh scent of dirt, ammunition, and men who hadn't showered in weeks. Her whole body started to ache, heart first. Lorena leaned over and placed her opera glasses on her father's lap.

"I need some air," she whispered before hurrying out.

As soon as the cold January air hit her face, Lorena began to cry. For the first time, on the streets of Paris, she felt alienated, lost, and confused. She looked up, for guidance and strength, but only found the Ritz's bright windows looking back. And then, there, just above her, was the window of the suite she shared with Ron on their furlough. She could still taste him somehow, smell his masculinity, feel his rough hands on her soft skin. Her mother's voice was loud in her head: _Take happiness wherever you can find it. _True, she was happy then. In a way, they both were, but Ron only needed her to validate his existence. He needed a new woman to rescue, to take care of. But Lorena didn't need that kind of help from him. If anything, she wanted Ron to be constant. She wanted to share her hopes, her fears, her secrets, her dreams with him… willingly. She wanted so much, but then again, nothing. Of course, he had been doing that all along and he had been perfectly contented with just being. As usual, Lorena had ruined her winning streak by kissing him, though she couldn't actually conjure up feelings of regret. It was a good kiss, one of the best she had ever had, but the implications and complications that had arisen were more than regretful.

_What if happiness isn't mine to take?_ Lorena asked this of the universe, hoping for a sign. Before she truly realized it, she was walking away from the Opéra Garnier, past the Ritz, through the streets of Paris. And she kept walking well into the night, until dawn came and she found herself in front of the café where she divulged her one of her darkest secrets, her bloody feet leaving red stains on the sidewalk. The owner, who was just about to unlock the doors for business, upon noticing her injuries, rushed Lorena inside. The dark-haired man sat her down at a middle table and placed in front of her a cup of strong coffee and a croissant. She looked toward the ceiling and smiled as she heard him say, in accented English, "Take it."

"Merci," she said. "Merci beaucoup."

_Oh, bella, never doubt your joy._

* * *

"Your brother is missing," Charles Carlyle said during morning tea.

Lorena's scone fell to her china plate with a noisy clatter and her mouth dropped open in an unladylike fashion. "I've been here for two goddamn weeks and you tell me this _now_?" she snapped.

Charles gave his daughter a hard stare. "Do not speak to me that way, young lady. I am not one of those soldiers that you write about. I am your father."

"Yes," Lorena said, "you are. You are also the man who took me away from my work at a crucial moment. The men that I have come to know and respect might be dying right now and I can't be of any help to them. All because of you feel that you have to protect me in order to make up for something. I volunteered for this, Father. I wanted to be in the middle of the war. Hell, I wanted to get shot and killed. I wanted it all to be over. When I took this assignment, I was being selfish, but now, I want to be there for them, not for me. You didn't believe me until it was too late before, Father, and that is not my fault. That is not an excuse for you to keep me here in this city knowing that I have responsibilities to people back home and out in the field. It's like you don't care at all."

"I don't care? I tell you that your brother, your own flesh and blood, is missing and all you can care about are a group of men you barely know? What do you think your mother would say?"

Charles, with his gray hair and freckled face, had a vein that protruded from his forehead when he was angry. It was throbbing while his tea got cold.

"She would tell me to go where I wanted, not where you deem it's safest."

"And what about your brother?" he asked, the haughty Boston accent heavy in his voice.

"I don't know, but he's too strong and too stubborn to die. He'll be home."

"Oh, so you have magical powers now? You spend a few years on your own and you think that you are all-knowing?"

"No, but I think I'm entitled to some credit."

Charles leaned back and sighed. "You are, darling, but - well - I have already lost your mother and Lorenzo is missing. I cannot even imagine losing you as well."

Lorena reached across the table and touched the top of his hand. "You'll only lose me if you don't let go." She smiled the way she used to, before her glass life shattered. "Let me go, Father."

And before she could say, _adieu_, Lorena Carlyle was the passenger seat of a jeep four-by-four with a bag full of chocolate and Lucky Strikes. It was going to be one hell of a homecoming.

* * *

The ground trembled beneath the jeep as it slowed to a stop on the outskirts of the Ardennes. Lorena turned sharply to the driver.

"Why have we stopped?"

The man, short, young, uneducated, stared at her, completely horrified by the implication of her tone. Lorena fought the urge to slap him.

"Lady, don't you hear those 88's comin' down?"

"Of course, I do. Who couldn't? But why have we stopped here? _And don't tell me that you're scared, because I'm sure the women in your family are a lot worse._"

"_You're Italian_?" he asked, his heavy Boston accent transforming the beautiful cadence that the romantic language had into something more urban and brutish.

"_Not one bit,_" she answered.

"_Then how do you - oh, damn. Look, I'm sure you could handle yourself in there -_"

"_You have no idea."_

"_But I'm not risking my own life, so forget it_."

"_You act as though you haven't been in rougher spots before. I'm sure you were in a brawl or two back in Boston. After a Red Sox game, perhaps?_" Lorena said, mocking him.

"That ain't the point," he answered in English.

Lorena nodded and picked up her canvas bag from the back. She leapt out onto the icy ground and slung the bag over her shoulder. She straightened her steel helmet, smiling. "Good luck, Mister, uh… you know, I never caught your name."

"Frank, ma'am. Frank Curialli."

"Nice to meet you, Frank. Lorena Carlyle," she said, extending her hand.

"Carlyle?" he said, reluctantly reaching to shake it. "That explains the set you got."

Lorena laughed and smiled demurely. "Buona fortuna, Frank."

"Same to you, Lorena. Same to you."

With that, Frank Curialli of Boston, Massachusetts sped off into the darkness with only the soft light of the moon and the bright flashes of German artillery illuminating the way. The tremors from the solid ground traveled up Lorena's spine, coating her body in goosebumps and fear, but not for her life, but for the others'. She inhaled deeply through her nose and exhaled her weakness and anxiety through her lips, leaving it out in the cold, pine-scented air. She readjusted the bag on her shoulder and turned toward the Bois Jacques, ready to face whatever the world was ready to throw at her.

* * *

The low-hanging branches of the destroyed trees battered Lorena's cold body and brought back strange memories. If she had her choice, she would have rather remembered some time when she ran through a New England forest with her brother, exploring and pretending to be wild children. Or, upon looking up at the light show above her, remembered a July Fourth celebration in the remote past with fireworks and music. Instead, though, Lorena was consumed with thoughts of Parker and his various weapons, as well as trying not to step on any of the dead animals that were strewn throughout the forest. Of course, that was the only thing that kept her going forward, closer and closer to the front line where second battalion was having the "shit shelled out of them," as fellow-Italian Sergeant Bill Guarnere would say. Lorena hoped that if she kept moving, she could leave Parker behind, but, if anything, she was leaving a trail of breadcrumbs for his memory to follow. Her mind - her body - would never free of her late-husband. Though she no longer considered herself a victim, he was still a part of who she was, and that would never quite go away.

Perhaps, that was her problem: every person Lorena met unknowingly gave her a tiny piece of themselves for her to carry around. They were strings that were eternally woven into the giant sweater that she donned every morning when she woke up. Some might have argued that that particular quality was what made her such a success as a journalist. She remembered people easily because they were in her somehow. Yet, as an opposing side would point out, it made her biased. She was too attached to people.

That was her direct problem with Ron, besides the whole married-with-child situation. She had manufactured a delusional divine connection, opened herself up to the point of total abandon, and kissed him with a passion that she didn't know she possessed. And, the poor guy, he had gone along for the emotional rollercoaster ride by, yet again, being there. Lorena supposed that he had _accepted _the way that she tore a piece of him and nailed it to her own heart, but she couldn't help but feel overwhelmingly guilty.

Then, as she began running, the guilt disappeared and her memories returned. Lorena had lost count of the number of times she ran through the hallways and up and down the stairs of the house in Atlanta. She was constantly running for her life then, trying to escape a fate that was inescapable. Lorena was reminded of something her mother used to tell her. "Sei una trottola." _You're a spinning top._ She was such a fool to think that one little movement of her finger on the trigger would end it all. The only thing it had done was give her more to run from. Prison, the papers, the talk, the people: everything that labeled her. Her father, her brother, her boss: everyone that pitied her. The city, the States: everywhere that held too many bad memories. Now, she ran from bullets and bombs and a beautiful man with both strapped to his chest.

And, as though someone or something had pushed her, Lorena found herself face-to-face with that beautiful strong-jawed man in his foxhole. Ron looked just as surprised to see her as she was to see him, possibly more since he wasn't sure if or when she would be returning. A branch fell through the weakening cover and crashed against her helmet. Without another thought, Ron pulled her against him and covered her with his body. He breathed in her scent, equally sweet and bitter, that lingered in her hair and on her soft neck. His hands cradled her in intimate places - at the small of her back and her thighs - where under normal circumstances, he could only dream of touching her. Sure, war was hell, but it had brought him more good than bad sometimes.

When the shelling stopped, Lorena remained remarkably still against Ron for several minutes. Not that he minded. In fact, he wanted nothing more than for her to stay there underneath him. Once she finally moved, he put his weight on his hands and looked down at her: helmet askew, hair fanned out with a few strands sticking to her forehead and cheeks, hands lightly touching his upper arms. It look every ounce of his self-control for Ron not to dip his head down and ravage her right then and there.

Lorena knew what he was thinking. She could feel it against her inner thigh and her cheeks felt as though someone had struck a match on them. She slid out from beneath him and pushed herself to the other side of the foxhole, which put just enough distance between them. It did nothing to quell the own lust she felt for Ron Speirs, to stop her emotions from engulfing her mind.

"Thank you," she said before crawling out and moving at a low crouch away.

Ron sighed heavily, letting his head slip into his hands. Normally, her damsel-in-distress act (and it was _only _an act) made him stronger, but there were those off occasions when her espresso-colored eyes would throw him for a loop. He had seen confusion and thirst there that night, something dirty and mystical that he drank in like a cure-all. He was simultaneously addicted and devoted in ways that he hadn't known he was capable of. Beatrice was soft and caring, sweet and simple. Lorena was hard and passionate, honest and complex. Bea needed a shoulder to cry on and someone to support her. Lorena didn't need, she wanted, and that want was something Ron understood better than the need.

Lorena was like a piece of himself that had gone missing somewhere along the line in his life, in his past. If anything, that was what he needed. He needed that piece of himself back and until she was fully there with him, he wouldn't have it.

* * *

"Glad you could join us, Lorena. We were wondering if this was going to go unrecorded," Nixon said, gesturing to the town of Foy that laid before second battalion.

Bill Guarnere and Joe Toye were gone, lost a few limbs during a barrage on January 3rd. Buck Compton, a lieutenant from California, had been sent to a hospital as well, but for his mental health more than his physical health. Skip Muck and Alex Penkala were hit directly the night that Lorena returned. The days had ticked by slowly and as they watched Foy, Lorena slowly lost hope that any of them would make it out alive.

On the day of the attack, she overheard the last of Dick's instructions to Dike and caught Easy's CO in an exaggerated yawn. She shook her head as she walked past him toward Nixon and the edge of the tree line.

"This is going to be a disaster," she said in a low voice.

"Don't let Dick hear you say that. He has some faith in Dike. Not much, mind you, but some," Nixon said, handed off the binoculars to her.

Lorena looked at Foy, watching the Germans milling around. "That's the problem. He can't handle the pressure or the responsibility. A lot of them are going to die out there."

"Don't they always?"

* * *

There was no hesitation in Lorena's mind that she would join Easy on the attack. Her job was to go where the action was and the action was not hiding behind the brass with her portable typewriter. She'd pick up a gun if she had to and run out there with them, but once she started moving, no one thought to stop her until it was too late. Nixon shouted after her, but she couldn't hear a thing over her own labored breathing and the gunfire.

_Chaos_, she fought to remember. _Nothing but utter chaos. _Dike was stalling, out in the open, until Sergeant Carwood Lipton of West Virginia finally forced him to take cover behind a haystack. Lorena hurried alongside the radioman, Luz. She could hear Dick shouting on the other end of the line, but Dike's harried orders drowned it out. Lorena heard the terror in his high-pitched shaking voice as he instructed first platoon to attack alone. It wasn't a tone that anyone wanted to hear during a major take-over, especially not from a CO.

Then, from the corner of her eye, Lorena caught a glimpse of a figure bursting through a wave of falling dirt and snow without faltering. Ron, gallant and taller than she ever remembered, placed a steady hand on Dike's shoulder.

"I'm taking over," he said. Lorena noticed a sudden calmness that came over the small portion of the company. _It's funny how three little words can have such an effect on people. "I'm taking over…" It was the best thing any of us had heard all day. _"First Sergeant Lipton? What have we got?"

"Sir, most of the company is spread out here," Lipton began, indicating where his comrades had gone. "First platoon tried to go around but they're pinned down by a sniper. I think it's the building with the caved in roof."

Without blinking, Ron gave quick, but thorough instructions and then jumped up to lead the attack in. He stopped only for a moment to motion to Lorena to follow him. She raced alongside of him toward the German squad that fired upon them. But despite the circumstances, Lorena only knew the Colt in her hand and the snow at her feet. Then there were four of them, pressed along the side of a building deep within the town of Foy. George Luz shouted into the radio, Lorena memorized the scene, Lipton peered around the side and before Lorena could ask about Item Company, Ron had taken off.

Lorena could feel her heart lurch into her throat. He was running through the Germans. Straight through the middle of them. Lorena watched from an awkward standing position as the enemy troops simply looked at the lone American GI before they finally seemed to realize what had just happened. Ron rolled over the top of the broken wall, then, in a matter of seconds, rolled back and returned to _his _company.

Ronald Speirs was no longer a platoon leader, but a company leader. In due time, he would be promoted to Captain and would be officially known as commanding officer of E Company. _And _that _is the man who wants me_, she thought selfishly. For years, the only cards that Lorena had been able to see in the hand she was dealt were jokers, but finally, among all the diamonds and clubs, she saw him: the King of Hearts.

And he was beautiful.

* * *

After several more days of fighting, Easy Company was finally given the reprieve it deserved and all 63 men that had survived the Battle of the Bulge were quartered in a convent in Rachamps. It was the first night they had spent indoors in a month. The glow of hundreds of flickering pillar candles filled the main sanctuary with a warmth that was barely imaginable and the choir the nuns had brought in created a relaxed mood amongst the men. Lorena, though, felt energized. Instead of resting, she walked along the polished corridors, admiring the stained glass and decorative carvings that embellished the woodwork.

Ron came up silently behind her after turning in a handful of papers to battalion headquarters. He had dropped off a majority of his gear on the cot the nuns had given each of the men to sleep on and felt naked in just his uniform. Without all the bags dripping from him, he didn't feel quite like himself.

"It's a lot warmer in there," he said, causing her to turn slowly.

Lorena gave him a dry, half-smile and casually walked over to him. She leaned against the wall and let her arms hang by her sides. They hadn't spoken since the power-switch at Foy, even though there was so much to be said. Ron, with one hand on the cold wall, stood in front of her, looking down at the war correspondent hungrily. The glowing room at the end of the corridor cast a golden light on one side of Lorena's face, putting the other one into darkness. Ron thought of the irony of it, how perfectly it suited her. A singular curl, black as the shadows that surrounded them, fell into her eye and he gently brushed it away with the tips of his fingers, then pulled his hand back and waited for her to speak. Lorena tilted her head back and watched as the pulsing light caught the bits of gold that mixed with the olive green of his smoldering eyes. She bit her bottom lip.

"That was a really stupid thing you did out there," she said. "Really, incredibly stupid."

Ron scoffed and shook his head. Then, without warning, his lips went down on Lorena's like a hawk going in for a kill. Were she not up against a wall already, she would have toppled over. Once she gained her bearings, though, her arms snaked around his neck and her fingers dug deep into his tousled, unwashed hair. His facial hair, although rough on her skin, was a refreshing change from what she had always had before: clean-shaven and scrubbed up. His tongue passed along the seam of her lips and she felt a shiver speed down her spine. There was a softness to his lips that was a paradox to the brusqueness of his touch. Ron's hands, while once only on her back, traveled downward until he had a firm grasp on her rear and was pulling her leg up to wrap it around his waist. Lorena felt his need again, that time pressed flush against her stomach, and she sighed into his mouth. Embarrassment initially tugged at Ron, but when Lorena seemed to push herself into him, trying desperately to get closer, he lost all sense. His lips brushed down her jaw line to her earlobe, where he nipped and kissed, listening to her uneven breaths in the partial darkness of the hall.

Near them, someone cleared their throat loudly. Lorena blushed brightly as her eyes met the disapproving gaze of a nun, just as burly and terrifying as the ones in the cathedral her mother had frequented. Ron stepped away from Lorena and straightened his hair, staring at the floor. The two of them waited until the sister's footsteps fell silent before they spoke or looked at one another.

"What does this mean?" Lorena asked.

"Don't tell me your reading into us getting caught by the nun? We were necking in a convent. It was bound to happen."

Lorena laughed. "No, no. I mean, what does this mean for us? I care for you, Ron. Obviously, or else I would not have done this, but it's still something I have to ask. I mean, after all, you are mar-"

"Don't say it," Ron said quickly. "I know what I am, but I also know that I can't let this go. Whatever this is between you and me."

_Take happiness where you can find it. _"Okay," she said. "Then I'll take it for what it is."

Lorena pressed her lips against his gently, the contact making her feel lighter than air. She walked away, grinning, until Ron's voice called out to her from the shadows.

"Lorena, what do you think it is?"

"This, between you and me? It's happiness, darling. Pure happiness."

* * *

Reviews are love.


	12. Out of Time

**A/N: **There's quite a bit of action in this chapter, and not of the guns and explosions variety, if you know what I mean (wink, wink). I figured it was about time, but we all know I can't have them happy for too long. Just a warning. Enjoy! Oh, and I couldn't find a proper video for this chapter, so you'll simply have to trust me when I tell you that it's beautiful.

Inspired by Sam Phillips and many hours with a yoga mat.

* * *

**XII. Out of Time  
**_Listen to the scream of our desperate dream  
__Did we say forever and whatever did we mean?_

When David Webster returned to the war, he wasn't completely surprised when he was met with contempt. The men he had once served with were worn out. They were the Battered Bastards of Bastogne, full of stories and a new sense of life and death. He was just another GI with a clean uniform and a clean bill of health. It didn't matter that he was a D-Day vet. No one seemed to care. Even Lorena was aloof to his return.

Her ebony hair was unwashed and there was a sheen on her face from weeks of fighting. Yet, a brightness that hadn't existed before he left surrounded her like a halo and she was a light spot in the middle of the bleak French city. While her sunnier disposition was different (profoundly so), there were a few things that hadn't changed. Lorena still stood perfectly straight, as though someone was pulling a string too tight, and she still spoke with a clipped tone. And, of course, she still didn't like to be touched… at least, not by him. Captain Ronald Speirs, on the other hand…

"So, what have you been up to?" he asked quietly, upon noticing the charged air between the correspondent and the CO.

"Nothing I can't handle," she said before lighting up a cigarette from a crumpled pack.

"Well, I figured that, but Speirs? Really? Is it just me or you a glutton for punishment?"

Lorena laughed bitterly. "It's just you."

As far as Lorena was concerned, she was taking her life back. The abuse had consumed her mind for years. It turned her against people, away from human contact of any kind. Handshakes gave her panic attacks. Any embrace made her nauseous. The therapist she had gone to see told her that phobias such as hers had to be met head on and that the only way to overcome it was to simply fight through the anxiety. But with every touch and every look, she felt the judgment and the pity; she saw it plainly. Ron was the only person she knew that didn't care. He had no reason to, and because of that, she was drawn to him, like a mosquito to flesh in the dead of summer. Of course, Lorena knew that it would soon end. The war would be over and he would return to England to his wife and child, and she would return to Atlanta or Boston, but with a new sense of freedom. She would not shrink, nor would she hold her head up too high as not to get hurt. She would just be…

"Is this the company CP for Easy?" a voice said from behind them.

Lorena turned to look into the face of a young man. She had heard from Nixon about a West Pointer coming to join the ranks, a Lieutenant. By the bars on his collar and the trepidation in his tone, he appeared to be the one. At first glance, Lorena thought he was sort of like a lost puppy. Then he looked at her, at the war correspondent patch on her shoulder, and back at her again. She no longer saw a puppy, but instead, an attack dog. In his eyes, she was dangerous, and in her eyes, he was on the defensive.

Lipton, who was sprawled out on a couch with a blanket and a mug of Army tea, waved a weak arm in the direction of one of the mismatched chairs. "Yes, have a seat, sir."

The kid's dark eyes focused in on Lorena, dissecting her as she once did to others. She stared back at him, unafraid and full of contempt. "Lorena Hollis, I presume," he said.

"Carlyle," she corrected. "I haven't used Hollis since the trial."

"My apologies, ma'am."

"Accepted, Lieutenant."

Webster leaned in and whispered in her ear. "Did it get cold in here?"

"Be quiet, David or I'll box your ears."

Ron came bustling in again, his arms filled with clocks and various knick-knacks. He had been "collecting" things to send back to Bea throughout France, hoping that she could sell them and she'd eventually be secure enough that she wouldn't need him or his Army paycheck to support her child. In six months time, if his figuring was on point, Bea wouldn't need him. In six months time, Lorena would be his.

"Captain Speirs, sir, this is Lieutenant Jones," Lipton began, wrapping his shaky hands around the warm mug of coffee.

"Listen," Ron said, although the cigarette between his lips made him nearly impossible to understand, "for Christ's sake, will you go in the back and sack out? There's some beds back there with fresh sheets. Lorena, talk to him please. Or, hell, write him a quick letter. Maybe then he'll listen."

"I will, sir. I'm just trying to make myself useful, sir," Lipton said, wincing.

Winters and Nixon walked through the shattered doors of the company CP, their helmets tucked under their arms in an eerily similar manner. They looked dour and as forlorn as the weather outside. Lorena could smell the dissatisfaction.

"Regiment wants a patrol for prisoners. Since the river's the main line of resistance, we're going to have to cross it to get to them," Winters said, rubbing his hands together in both an effort to keep them warm and to keep from punching the tattered walls.

"What do we need to do?" Ron asked.

Lorena noticed that a strand of his dark, unruly hair had fallen from its usual place and brushed against his forehead. She fought the urge to reach up and fix it for him, because she loved nothing more in the world - besides her mother's marinara sauce - than running her fingers through his dirty hair.

"There's a three-story building on the enemy side, up the embankment. We know it's occupied. You can have fifteen men. Think very hard about who you want to lead the patrol. We need a lead scout, a translator. I've got the entire battalion on covering fire. It's tonight. 0100."

Lorena watched the men around her. Jones, the mistrusting creature, swallowed hard at the word "lead," as though Ron or Dick would allow him to command their men, the ones they had both been through so much with. Webster, on the other hand, lowered his head. He spoke German fluently - she had begged him to teach her more than once - and would most likely be first choice to be translator for the patrol. It was the last place David wanted to be. He had studied literature at an Ivy League school. He was the sensitive, bookish type who had volunteered for the paratroopers to avoid being drafted into a regiment with boys who also didn't want to be there. Because of this, it made it difficult for the others to sympathize with him. But Webster never stared at Lorena's scars. Not at the thick ones that blemished the skin of her neck or the delicate ones above her brow. Not at the ones on her hands (and there were many) or the ones on her wrists, even though they suggested more than any of the others. Jones, though, stared and Lorena didn't take kindly to people gawking at her with such disapproval. She would side with Webster in an instant

"Speirs, I want this one to be as fool proof and as safe as possible," Dick said.

"Yeah, don't take any chances on this one," Nixon added. "We're too far along for that. That goes for you too, Carlyle."

"Of course," she said with a nod before moving over to where Ron stood, speaking in hushed tones to Lipton. "Permission to go on the patrol, Captain."

"Can't you sit pretty with the rest of the battalion? Take it easy for a while?"

"Are you babying me, Ron? If you are, must I point out how ridiculous that is?" Her words were teasing, but her tone was sincere.

"I'll let you know later," Ron said, his eyes sparking like firecrackers.

Lorena's heart raced but her face remained unreadable. She walked into a back bedroom where her things had been placed and her typewriter had been set up. She sat down at the wooden desk and a wave of inspiration came over her. Her fingers flew to her bag, pulling out several sheets of paper, which she feed into the machine. Lorena cracked her knuckles once, then reached out to touch the keys like Beethoven to a piano. Before she knew it, her hands were making a melody of clacks and dings: music to her ears.

* * *

Lorena had no idea how much time had passed since she began working. She had gone into a trance, one that was broken by three quick raps on the old door. Nixon stood in the entryway, raggedy face and all. He looked like hell, but she wouldn't dare tell him that. He probably would have said the same about her.

"Got good news for you, sweet pea," he said with a grin.

"What is it, sugar plum?"

"There's hot showers and clean uniforms. Vest will be bringing yours in, but don't put it on just yet. The officers are going to have at it, then the enlisted guys, and once they're all done, you've got the place all to yourself for at least thirty minutes. You're welcome, by the way."

Lorena's mouth dropped in awe. "Thank you very much, Lewis. How did you do it?"

"Well," Nixon said with a obnoxious smile, "one of the guys setting it up was from Boston and guess where he and his brothers and his father worked?"

"Let me guess, LC Glass Company?"

Nixon laughed. "You've got it, and they all kept their jobs through the Depression. While all his buddies were getting canned - his words, not mine - he was enjoying the life of a working man."

"And not singing, 'Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?'"

"Exactly. Anyway, it shouldn't be too long. Oh, and if you could find your boyfriend and let him know about it, that would be a big help. I can't seem to track him down."

Lorena sat up straight against the back of the chair. "Who?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Lorena. If you see Speirs…"

She nodded and Nixon turned with a smile. Two people, so far, knew about her and Ron, but Lorena wondered how many more of the men were aware of their tryst. She felt both worried and exhilarated, as a part of her, the Sicilian part, liked the risks associated with the affair. In fact, it made her feel strangely alive.

Lorena stood and made her way to the front room in hopes of finding Ron there, but there wasn't a soul in sight. She searched the other bedrooms, the kitchen, the dining room, but the only living things were a few mice that survived whatever the Germans had done to the building. Lorena shrugged her shoulders and left the headquarters to wait her turn.

* * *

A man was dead, a non-com named Bill Kiehn. He was simply at the wrong place at the wrong time, carrying a sack of potatoes across the street. _Wrong place, wrong time. _Lorena filed that away with a million other things, including a sign outside of the shower that read: "You are now under enemy observation. Minimize exposure." _Minimize exposure In a shower. Was that meant to be ironic? Was that the Army's attempt at humor? _She also tried to remember exactly how the water felt as it hit her skin, the heat from the water mixing with the cold of the dirt and grime. Lorena wore nothing more than her bra and rayon panties, and with every curtain closed, the steam became trapped in the dark shower, leaving her with the memories of the country club's sauna and the Saturday afternoons that she wasted in her untroubled youth.

She was lost again, in another world, until she heard a voice call her name. Quickly, she wrapped her arms around her, shielding herself from the eyes of an unknown soldier. Her head whipped around quickly; her short, wet locks sticking to her face.

"Who is it? Where are you?" she said, panicked. If she had to, would be able to break his nose. _Hit heel of hand upward against nose. Run like hell. _Or bring the man to the ground. _Knee or foot to groin. Kick him while he's down. Run like hell. _Or blind him temporarily. _Index finger and middle finger to eyes. Knee to groin. Run like hell._

"Lorena, it's just me," the voice said again, though that time it was more familiar. A thick band of light where the curtains parted revealed Ron Speirs' face and a devilish smirk.

"You scared me half to death. What are you doing here?"

"I haven't showered yet. I wondered if I could join you," he said.

There was a huskiness to his voice that made Lorena quiver. Were she not standing underneath a torrent of hot water, she would have been covered in goosebumps. She forced herself to be a lady.

"Are you insane? Do you have any idea what will happen if we're caught?"

"You care?"

Lorena opened her mouth. _Yes, you imbecile, you do. Lie. _"No."

Ron smiled and stepped into the large, makeshift shower. He closed the curtain tight behind him before turning to take in the figure before him. He had seen her in her under things once before, but he had been careful not too look too hard that time, after she told of her unborn child and her pain. This moment was different. She wasn't fighting him or his touch any more.

Lorena stood, tense, as Ron came up behind her. He placed his hands at the base of her neck and slid them through her hair. She leaned into his touch with a sigh and her arms fell to her sides, repeating a mantra silently. _This is not Parker. Give this a chance. This is not Parker. _His fingertips trailed lightly down her arms, then her sides, then her back. Ron could feel the scars that criss-crossed all over the warm, smooth skin of her back, where Parker Hollis must have whipped her with a belt or some other thing that left deep gashes in her freckled skin. Anger tore through him, burning through his body as if there was liquid fire in his veins. He wanted to scream, to yell, but instead, he bent his head forward and placed his lips against her neck.

Lorena gasped as Ron began to kiss and nip at her neck and soon her bare shoulder. His naked torso was pressed against her back and she could feel the muscles tighten. She couldn't move and didn't dare to in case he took it as a sign of her wanting him to stop, and as he brought his hands forward to place them on her hips, stopping was the last thing she wanted him to do. Lorena whimpered as his tongue darted out to taste the water on her skin and, without hesitation, she turned to face him.

Ron stared down at her, worried that he had done something wrong, but when she raked her nails down his chest, he smiled. He met her eager lips without force, allowing her to take control. The water beat down on their heads and shoulders and rushed down their faces, adding to the heat. Lorena pulled back, but only for a second, before she dragged her mouth along Ron's rough jaw. She stood on the tips of her toes to reach his earlobe.

"We don't have much time, but I want this. I want you," she whispered. Her teeth grazed the cartilage and she bit down, pulling slightly. Ron groaned against her neck and he tilted his hips to touch her, allowing her to feel how much he wanted her too. He reached up and took one of her large breasts in his hand before kissing her hard on the mouth again.

"Ma'am," a loud voice said from the other side of the green curtain. "Ma'am, it's been thirty minutes. I can't give ya any more than that."

Lorena and Ron parted reluctantly, their breathing labored and ragged. "Okay, just one minute," she said, her voice hoarse. Lorena glanced up and caught Ron's eyes in the dark. "I'm sorry," she mouthed before the water ceased.

She walked over to the other shower head where an Army blanket hung to be used as a towel. She wrapped the fabric around her and popped her head out of the curtain. "Excuse me, may I have another one of those for my hair?" she asked with a strong New England inflection.

"Sure, Ms. Carlyle," the man said, his own Massachusetts accent strong in the three words.

Lorena extended her hand gracefully and smiled. "Thank you." She took the towel and the uniform he also handed her and quickly disappeared behind the curtain. She returned to Ron, who stood in naught but his Army-issued boxers and bare skin. For the first time, she got a chance to see all of him at once. If only the idiot outside had been struck down by German artillery…

"Do you have clothes somewhere?" she whispered.

"Yeah. Right outside, hidden. I'll let you get dressed in peace."

"No, no. Don't bother. Your hand was on my breast not one minute ago, I don't mind if you see me naked."

Despite her nonchalance, Lorena still turned and face the opposite direction of him. She could feel Ron's eyes on her, watching. He was damning the little man just as much as she was. She donned her uniform and dried her hair the best she could with the makeshift towel, then gave Ron a little salute. Lorena left the wet material on a table, took her old helmet from it, and walked back to the company CP.

Whatever it was she was meant to remember, it was long gone by the time she got back to her room.

* * *

There was a spring in Ron's step and he could feel it in every inch of his body. Lorena's voice, a soft purr with just a hint of southern charm and a robust dose of northern frankness, repeated the same three words in his head. _I want you._ A heat the size of a forest fire tore through him. He had never been as ardent with Bea, not even after her doctor had given them the green light. It had been gentle and sweet and so unlike him. He tried telling himself that it was all because she was pregnant, but even if she hadn't been, he was sure that he would have had to treat her like a delicate flower. Not that he blamed her. She _was _a delicate flower, but she needed someone who wouldn't be constantly afraid of hurting her.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught his own reflection in the window of a shop. At first, he didn't recognize the man staring back at him, the idiot with the smile on his face. Once Ron understood that it was his own grin, it grew until he laughed. Not a snort, but a laugh. With a deep breath, he composed himself, then headed off to meet Winters, though, he knew only a few feet away, an black-haired _bella donna _wanted him.

* * *

Lorena stopped mid-sentence to answer a knock at her door. She whole-heartedly hoped it was Ron, wanting desperately to finish what they started, so when she saw Vest, mail-sorter extraordinaire, her face fell.

"Sorry to interrupt you, Lorena, but there's a letter here for you," he said, handing her a thin white envelope.

"Thank you," she said, taking it carefully and eyeing the Massachusetts address.

Vest hurried away and Lorena quickly shut the door. A smile grew as she flipped the envelope over, but once she flipped back to see the return address again, it quickly faded. _Eugene Griffith. _Lorena's chest felt heavy. Eugene was the Carlyle family's lawyer. He had defended Lorena during the trial and was typically the bearer of bad news. If Lorenzo had been found dead, it would most likely be Eugene's, not Charles', responsibility to tell her. With a deep inhale and a fast exhale, she tore the envelope open and pulled out the single piece of cream-colored paper. Lorena's eyes went wide and she forgot how to breathe. The room began spinning. The letter fell from her scarred hands and drifted to the floor as Lorena fell with a hard _thunk_ against the dusty wooden floor.

_Lorena, several weeks ago, your dear father fell ill with pneumonia. Until recently, he appeared to be out of the proverbial woods, but, quite suddenly, he took a drastic turn for the worse. I am terribly sorry to tell you that he did not make it. He passed on comfortably in his sleep and is now joined with your loving mother once again. I must request that you return to Boston at once so we can discuss the future of LC Glass. With Lorenzo missing, I am afraid that you are next in line to inherit the family business. My deepest condolences, Eugene._

Lorena, at the age of twenty-five, was an orphan and the only Carlyle left standing.

* * *

Reviews are darling.


	13. Slow Life

**A/N: **Much shorter than most of the other chapters, but I wanted to close out The Last Patrol as quickly as possible because just writing it is making me cold. The next chapter might be out later in October for a number of reasons, one of which being I'm writing/revising my next B.O.B. work, which is very research intensive. There are a lot of elements that I don't want to screw up on, so it's taking up a lot of my allotted writing time. In other words: excuses, excuses, excuses. Thank you to all of my reviewers. You're lovely. Enjoy!  
www . youtube . com/watch?v=Ez4xtM7uxG4

Inspired by Grizzly Bear and insomnia.

**

* * *

**

XIII. Slow Life

_even though you're the only one i see  
__it's the last catastrophe_

"What are we waiting for?" Joe Liebgott asked, propping his boots up on the table.

"The same thing we're always waiting for: a woman," Babe Heffron replied, more pissed about being there than having to wait.

Even Winters was starting to get annoyed and his freckles slowly disappeared as a red flush came to his face. He turned sharply to Ron, who was more worried than aggravated, and instructed him to go find her. For sure, Dick would be having words with the reporter. Ron hurried out into the powdery snow to find Lorena and drag her ass to the briefing. It wasn't like her to be late, though, and he knew something had to be wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong.

He burst into the CP, ignoring Lipton's attempts to get his attention. He headed down the dark corridor and rapped hard on her door. Silence. _Knock. Knock. Knock._ He could hear her soft footfalls against the wooden floor. The door creaked open to reveal Lorena, her eyes bloodshot and her face swollen and splotchy.

"Lorena, what happened?" Ron said, careful not to appear as though he was pushing his way into the room.

"My fa-" she began. She gulped and winced, her breaths becoming labored and shallow. "I… I can't even say it."

Lorena retreated back into the room, leaving the door open. Ron followed her in and shut the door behind him. He took the piece of paper from her limp, outstretched hand and scanned it. Lorena, while sitting on the edge of the bed, stared forward with a blank expression. At that moment, she didn't seem sad or shocked. She seemed numb, almost processing. Ron knelt by her and touched the back of her hand. Lorena recoiled and turned away from him, cringing. He tried not to take offense, but anger was a reflex for Ron Speirs and his only coping mechanism for rejection (particularly the kind that Lorena always seemed to bestow upon him whenever he got close).

"I'm sorry, Lorena," he said as one of his walls went up.

"So am I," she said, disregarding the tightness in his voice. "I was awful the last time I saw him."

Ron nodded. She had briefly mentioned to him the squabble that she had had with Charles Carlyle over tea in Paris. "When are you leaving?" he asked.

She scoffed bitterly, though in her mind, it sounded like a hearty laugh. "I'm not."

Ron's eyebrows knitted together. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I'm not leaving. I'm not going back to Boston. Not now, not ever." There was a finality in her tone that Ron knew and it haunted him.

"What about the funeral?"

"What about it? It's nothing more than an excuse for the people who thought they knew my father to mill about the house and made poignant remarks about how wonderful he was. Then, knowing those people, it would turn into an impromptu business meeting about whether or not I planned on selling or not and -"

Ron stood suddenly. "Sell? Why would you be in charge of selling? Isn't it your brother's business?"

A fresh set of tears clouded Lorena's vision and she clenched her jaw tight against them. "Read it again," she said.

Ron examined the letter further. He paled slightly at the sight of the last line. "How long has he been missing?"

"I don't know. Too long."

Lorena fell silent once again and a thickness filled the stale air. She stared down at her hands, forcing Ron to see the damage that had once been done to her. He hadn't actually noticed the quantity of scars on her hands prior to that moment, nor the vast range in shape and size. Each one had a story, one more horrific than the last. Rage, heavy and dark, sat on Ron's shoulders and filled his head. If Parker Hollis weren't already dead, Ron would have been on the next boat back to the States and on the next train to Atlanta, GA to shoot the bastard himself. As it was, though, Lorena had rightly beat him to it.

"I suppose I've missed the briefing," Lorena said, breaking Ron from his trance.

He shook his head. "Forget it, alright? Your editor will just have to get over this one."

"You don't expect me to stay back, do you?" she asked, hating the weakness in her voice and the pain in her throat.

"You can't go out there like this, Lorena."

She bristled visibly. "Like what? Emotionally compromised?"

"Exactly."

"What's the worst that could happen to me?" she said, her blood boiling and her emotions whirling. "Could I die? Could I get shot and killed? What do I care about living anymore?"

Ron folded his arms across his thick chest. "Lorenzo isn't dead. He could be alive."

"Are you honestly being optimistic right now?"

He knew how ridiculous it sounded. Ron having hope? Impossible. He had once said, to a young, terrified soldier, that fear came from not accepting that they were already dead. Of course, before he met Lorena that was true, but this woman, who had been dead inside for years, proved to him that he had some life left. She didn't necessarily want to be saved by him and that notion had taken his world and thrown it for a loop.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, I am."

Normally, Lorena would have smiled at a comment like that. She would have let the corner of her mouth turn upward in amusement at his audacity. At that exact moment, though, she felt anger, guilt, and sadness, but nothing more. The three emotions repeated on her, coming in indefinite waves. She couldn't even force a smile.

"I have nothing, Ron. What's the point of it all if I have nothing?"

Then Ron asked a question that he had never once openly asked another living soul. "What about me?"

And, naturally, Lorena responded in the worst possible way. She looked plainly at him, her eyes without sentiment or concern, and spoke in a calm, even tone. "What about you?"

* * *

_Nothing was allowed to "rattle or shine" as we set out into the European darkness. The Moder River laid before us; a cold, flat, murky abyss. If successful, fifteen brave men and I would be able to complete the mission in ten minutes. If unsuccessful, there would be sixteen more American corpses on German soil. It was a fact we had each grappled with before climbing into the inflatable boats, armed and prepared to capture as many Krauts as possible. _

_I climbed into the raft behind Private Webster. It was his first patrol since returning from the hospital. Webster had been shot during the battle at the crossroads on October 5__th__, 1944. There was an uncertainty in his face that he wouldn't dare deny, but, truthfully, we were all uneasy, though at first glance, it didn't show. As the first three boats made their way across the river, the fourth boat capsized, sending its three passengers into the water, one of whom could not swim. The rest of us continued on as the others regained their footing. _

_We wriggled on our bellies through the mud and snow before hurrying behind a series of covers: bricks, logs, hay stacks. Sergeant John Martin, in the lead, waved a few of us forward before settling next to me behind the final stack of logs. Lieutenant Jones, the West Point graduate that had requested to join the patrol, took Sergeant Grant and Private Heffron to secure the right perimeter and the crossroads. Sergeant Powers and Private Wynn secured the left flank. _

"_Okay, come on, let's go," Martin said, hustling us along within a shallow ditch and up along the side of a large farmhouse. _

_Martin worked quickly, adding a fixture to the end of his rifle, and then fired into a closed window. A boy, Private Jackson, ran ahead and up the stairs to the main entrance as glass shattered above us. I heard a distinct grunt as he threw a grenade into the room. Martin called out to him, told him to wait, but he didn't, and as he flung the door open, an explosion sent him staggering back before he collapsed in pain upon the floor. _

_After that, I'm afraid, I don't remember very much…_

Lorena stood, paralyzed by the shouting and the blood and the crying, with her handgun aimed at the face of a German didn't move, barely breathed. There was a slight taste of blood in her mouth where she had bit down on her cheek. Webster grabbed her as he ran, pulling her out the door and down the stairs. The rat-tat-tat of gunfire at their backs, they launched themselves into the boats. Overhead, the flashes of bullets flying reminded Lorena of fireflies. Her knuckles were white as she gripped tight to the gun, until, suddenly, they weren't and her hand grazed the top of the icy water beneath her. The heavy thing dropped from her fingers to the bottom of the river, to mix with the dirt and the dead. Everything became a blur of lights and sounds and pushing and shoving until she found herself leaning against a cold, stone wall, wet with condensation. Vest was trying to kill the Kraut prisoners, Jones was holding onto Jackson's legs as they flailed and kicked, and Ramirez gently wiped away the blood from his fallen comrade's face.

Bile rose in Lorena's throat as she stared down at the terrified boy on the table. In place of Jackson, though, she saw Lorenzo. His face was bleeding and he was praying in Italian, crying to Mama and the Madonna. The perfect shine in his black hair was gone, replaced with dirt and blood, and his eyes held none of the joy she loved. Lorena pressed herself further against the wall, almost as though she were hoping to disappear into it. She coughed and swallowed, then coughed and swallowed again until she couldn't fight her own body any longer. Lorena vomited the contents of her empty stomach onto the floor of the dank basement. When everything finally went quiet, nineteen pairs of eyes turned toward Lorena. She paled, staggered forward, and crashed, face-first, on the ground.

* * *

As Winters spoke to Johnny Martin, Ron stood off to the side, his mind elsewhere. He stared, with arms crossed, up at the window where Lorena was resting. He couldn't exactly pinpoint why he was pissed off. It might have been because they had lost a soldier on the patrol due to a stupid mistake. It might have been because his right eye kept twitching. It might have been a million other things, but as he watched the slight movement of the tattered curtains in the window, he knew that it was rejection from a psychopath that had him wanting to punch holes in the walls.

He had a loving wife back in England. Why should he give a flying fuck about Lorena Carlyle? She was stubborn and selfish; heartless and cruel. She had no remorse for anything or anyone. Had he really once loved that about her? Had he at one point in time gotten turned on by the revenge that she had pulled on Parker Hollis? Had he honestly thought that highly of a crazy murderous bitch? Yes, he had, because they were exactly alike, and since he touched her, he couldn't imagine going back to the soft, warm arms of his wife. He couldn't picture a life filled with handmade quilts and knitted scarves; freshly baked pies and congenial smiles. His brief taste of Lorena's exotic witchcraft had jump-started his imagination to the point where he could see a different future: store-bought suits, thick steaks for dinner, and sex. He wouldn't have to constantly _make love_, no matter how nice it felt sometimes.

"Fucking hell," he muttered.

"What?" Winters asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Nothing, sir. Nothing at all."

* * *

Reviews are a lot like love.


	14. 9 Crimes

**A/N: **Probably not one of my best chapters, but it'll be better next time (which should be in a few weeks or sooner). Thank you so much to everyone who reviews and has reviewed in the past. You are fabulous. Enjoy!  
www . youtube . com/watch?v=vHt72jJ_1t0

Inspired by Damien Rice and too many energy drinks.

* * *

**XIV. 9 Crimes  
**_leave me out with the waste  
__this is not what i do _

March 1945

The men had said that Germany was the closest thing to home that any of them had experienced since actually leaving three years ago. Between the warm food, the soft beds, and the fair fraulines, it was practically perfect. For the first time since their stint in Aldbourne in September of the previous year, they could breathe. Well, except for Lewis Nixon.

"Oh, well, wasn't me," he told Dick upon recalling his hazardous, tragic morning.

He was too deep in a trance, too obsessed with his VAT 69 to care how he sounded. The horror on his best friend's face should have been enough to snap him out of it, but really, who gave a fuck anymore? The scotch hit the back of his throat without any hint of a sensation. Was he honestly being demoted for something he didn't really _feel _anymore? That was another thing that should have stopped his self-destructive behavior, the lack of feeling, but, a little while later, the buzz came over him and lines that were once sharp, softened and all seemed right with the world for a second or two.

He wasn't the only one who was lost and consumed with indifference towards the world. Lorena wandered through Sturzelburg like something from a monster movie. Her eyes weren't even cold or hard anymore, they were empty. Her father was dead, her brother was missing in action (which often meant dead), and her mother had been dead for ages. Every relative of hers was gone. Aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents… they were all dead (or wanted nothing to do with the daughter of the immigrant whore) and Lorena wasn't far from joining them.

Ron, on the other hand, appeared as though he was full of energy since Lorena had pushed him as far away as possible (though not as far as she had pushed another man, he supposed). Instead of fixating on Lorena, he focused everything into returning to his wife and son when the war ended. He tore through the German towns like Sherman did through the South, "collecting" everything in his path that wasn't nailed down. He packed up platters, jewelry, silverware, and fountain pens, and sent them back to England. He went about it as though it was a mission, but he wasn't nearly as thrilled as he led on. He would have rather spent his days in Sturzelburg wrapped up in Lorena's arms, listening to her speak, in English, Italian, _or_ French. In fact, a few times he stopped short and pretended to be doing something else, like retying his boots, just to listen as she conversed with Doc Roe. _Non, je ne le savais pas, mais franchement, __ç__a ne me surprend pas._ He was pained by the sound of her voice in a way that he never imagined he would be; not by her, not by anyone. But there he was, heartbroken. He was a pathetic excuse for a man. For the sake of his dignity, Ron vowed to avoid her at all costs.

* * *

Lorena watched Lewis Nixon, safely from her third-floor window, as he shattered the glass of a store front in his desperate search for alcohol. His drinking had gone beyond the point of social acceptability and everyone noticed. It was like being in the country club again, except in their current circle, the talk consisted of military slang and casual swearing. Also, the gossip wasn't nearly as juicy. Minutes later, Nixon stumbled out of the mess, grumbling. Above him, a German man - the owner, for sure - shouted and flailed his arms about. Lorena wished that Webster were there, so he could translate, but, knowing the Ivy Leaguer's proclivity for chitchat and scandal, it was probably best for Nixon's reputation that he wasn't.

Of course, Lorena had other things on her mind. For one, the new non-fraternization policy that Ron Speirs had enacted between the two of them. In general, she didn't care very much that he was keeping away from her as though she were suffering from leprosy or the bubonic plague. She had become too dependent on his company anyway and if there was one thing she had learned from her past, it was that men were useless and she didn't _need _them in her life.

Another thing was the dead father situation. She should have returned to Boston upon Eugene Griffith's request. It was perfectly logical for her to do so. Jacob Bentley, the Vice President of LC Glass Co. would carry on as he had the many months - no, years - that Lorenzo was on the front, so that was of no concern. The trouble was the public relations work, which made her the symbolic figure head of the company, and the wills that had to be read, which would name Lorena heir to the Carlyle family fortune. It was a fact she couldn't bear to face. She didn't want to be the sole heir. She wanted to split the money and property with Lorenzo as they had been told that they would have to as teenagers. She wanted to be able to hold her older brother's hand at their father's funeral as they did at their mother's. Above all, she wanted her father back. She wanted to know that he was sitting comfortably behind his desk in his study or enjoying the view from the house in Martha's Vineyard. Lorena wiped away a tear that had formed in the corner of her eye. She had spent too much time wanting.

Lorena pulled the curtains together and crossed the small room to the twin-sized bed in the corner. She slid beneath the bare thread blankets and clutched her pillow for dear life. The German man shouted into the night and a cold stream of air passed under the damaged wooden door. She closed her eyes tight and pressed her body into the mattress in an attempt to shut out the noise. _After all, _she thought, _tomorrow is another day._

_

* * *

_

Sunlight filled the mailroom, creating an atmosphere that was almost heart-warming. Lorena leaned, most unladylike, against the counter, waiting for Vest to sort through the letters and packages. There was always something for her after the date of Charles Carlyle's funeral passed: letters from concerned friends of her father's, business associates, lawyers, her boss… it was a never-ending parade of condolence cards and angry letters expressing disappointment. Lorena would read them, tear them up, and carry on with her life. She only replied once, when Eugene corresponded with her again. It had been a long letter and an even longer response, but Lorena wrote as she always did: with an unruffled flourish that mixed northern forthrightness and southern charm.

_You must understand my dilemma: I am across an ocean and in the middle of a war. I am at the mercy of the United States Army, not the elite of Boston, and thus could not return, even if I wanted to. Of course, I have no desperation to grieve openly in front of strangers and acquaintances. I prefer to grieve in my own way: alone. I love my father dearly (love, not loved), just as I love my brother, but my absence is merely one of the consequences of war… I am terribly apologetic if I have caused you any emotional distress. Pass along my condolences and regrets those that expressed discontent. God willing, I will see you soon. Sincerely, Lorena_

As her thoughts drifted to her father's funeral (whether it was an open or closed casket, whether they dressed him in the blue suit or the black suit), the door opened, allowing a gentle breeze to blow through and ruffle the papers on the walls. Lorena turned just in time to watch Ron saunter in, his arms full. Without so much as glancing at her, he slid his loot onto the counter and threw three packs of Camel cigarettes down as a tip for Vest.

"You got a box all this stuff will fit into?" he asked, chewing a stick of gum. Lorena was close enough to smell it.

"Yes, sir, I think so. Same destination?" Vest said, looking up from his mail sorting.

"Yup," Ron answered before turning sharply. The last thing he wanted to do was see her face, because if he did, he'd hate himself.

"I'll make sure it goes out first thing in the morning. Boy, your folks are sure gonna have quite a collection by the time you get…" Vest paused to gauge the expression on the CO's face. "Home, sir."

Ron smiled. Lorena felt a fluttering deep within her, a tightness in her core. It wasn't even a smile that he flashed, more of a grin, one that showcased his white picket fence teeth. His eyes sparked with a devilish joy that she had seen before, privately, and seeing them out in public like that made her blush. At that moment, she was willing to forsake everything to feel his soft lips on hers.

"Finders keepers," he said. Then he looked at Lorena directly. On the inside, she was melting and boiling and screaming and dying. On the outside, she was an ice cube and immobile as a statue. But Ron could only see the outside. Instead of attempting to decode what she was really thinking by the tiny details (the way her jaw was set, the wrinkles in her forehead, the position of her hands), he took it for what it was. He was too tired to carry on the way that they had been. He left just as quickly as he came and Lorena bit the inside of her cheek hard to keep the pounding in her head and chest at bay.

"That was screwy, wasn't it?" Vest asked after he was sure that the captain wasn't around any longer.

"Oh, please," she said, "he's always screwy."

Vest went back to his sorting and Lorena watched as he slipped letter after letter into the pile for second battalion. Finally, he looked up with a smile and handed her a small white envelope, which she took without a word. She tore the flap back quickly and pulled out a tiny slip of stationary.

_You damn writers. I don't even have the choice of being angry. -Eugene_

Lorena laughed before tearing up the paper and tossing the pieces in the wooden wastepaper basket. The door flew open again and Nixon, his eyes bloodshot from a severe hangover, rushed up to the counter where Vest was still standing, staring, confused, at the journalist.

"Hello, Lewis," she said, trying to keep her voice just loud enough that he could hear her, but not loud enough to made his headache worse.

"Hey," Nixon answered with a nondescript wave. "I need some help finding some whiskey, a very specific brand of whiskey."

"Vat 69?" Vest asked, as though he even had to. "That's gonna be hard to find here in Germany, sir. And even if I can find it, it won't be cheap."

"Don't worry about the cost, just get it to me," Nixon said.

Lorena had heard that desperation a thousand times before. It was easily one of her biggest pet peeves. She had heard it from Parker. _Come on, baby, I need you tonight. I've been thinking' 'bout you all day, baby. _She had heard it from her father. _Lorena, be reasonable, please. _From her friends. _It's for world peace, Lorena. And it won't even cost you that much money because now you only have to buy one plate._ From Ron. _What about me? _From herself. _No, I'm sorry. You're right, Parker. Please, let's not fight. I'm so tired of fighting. Anything to make you happy, Parker._ The tone was like nails on a chalkboard, a dreadful screeching noise that made her grind her teeth together. In fact, she had been so caught up in the sound that she hadn't noticed the young, fresh-faced Private Janovec until after he had made his big announcement.

"300,000 Krauts just surrendered," he said. "We're heading out in an hour."

"One hour?" Lorena gasped in unison with Nixon. They each rushed for the door, one barely reaching it before the other.

"Captain Nixon, your mail, sir," Vest called, forcing the officer to turn around and grab the letter from out of the man's hands.

"Keep looking," Nixon said as he headed outside, following behind Lorena. "Where are you headed in such a hurry?"

"What do you care?" Lorena asked.

"I don't," he said. "It's just something you ask a friend, isn't it?"

Lorena shook her head with a vague smile. "Do you really think I would know?"

* * *

An hour later, Lorena found herself pushing through a crowd of rowdy men toward the trucks that were bound for other places. She gave a few nods to the faces she recognized and a cold shoulder to the face that she knew. She pushed past Ron rudely, bumping into him and forcing him out of the way as she moved. He watched her walk, a lit cigarette dangling out of his mouth. _How stupid_, she thought bitterly. _He looks so stupid._ It was childish, the game they were playing; even Ron had the same opinion of the whole thing. In spite of everything, he was still wildly infatuated with Lorena Giovanna. Too often, he wondered if Bea would notice how he had changed since the last time she saw him; if she would think it was a consequence of war and death and destruction. He wondered if he would call out Lorena's name in bed or picture her silky raven hair twisted in his hands instead of the plain nondescript blonde color of his wife's. He wondered if he would resent the child that he would have to raise, knowing that the boy wasn't his own, or if Bea would want to have a baby _with _him at all. And if they did have their own child, he wondered if he would imagine what it would look like if it had that Italian blood running through its veins instead of British. He spent too much time wondering… The night they met, he was sure that she was a witch. Now, he would have bet his life on it. And she wasn't a sweet type of witch that gave out caramel apples on Halloween, but an evil, bubbling-cauldron kind who knew how to take a perfectly sensible man and turn him into an All-American chump.

Lorena, though, only knew half of the power that she had over him, so she was unaware of Ron's calculating eyes as Webster helped her onto the back of the truck. "Thanks," she said as she placed her helmet on the ground and pushed a stray piece of hair out of her face. "Where are we heading again?"

"Bavaria," Webster said.

"Ah, the Alps… lovely. The birthplace of national socialism, correct?"

"Absolutely," Webster said, pulling a book out of his canvas bag.

The men began to sing just as the vehicles' engines started. Lorena knew the lyrics well, as she had heard them enough times amongst the men, and as the morbid words echoed loudly around her, she found an odd sort of comfort in them. _Gory, gory, what a hellava way to die. _As the men sang, she thought about Lorenzo. Her chest tightened painfully. _Gory, gory, what a hellava way to die._ She wondered if there was anyone to write about it as she had written about Hoobler, Muck, Penkala, Webb, Jackson, and the others who had perished since she joined the ranks. If he was dead, she hoped that another correspondent had had the decency to give him a proper obituary and mention all the good he had done in his short life. _Gory, gory what a hellava way to die._ "So the fuck what?" Webster said to Liebgott. _He ain't gonna jump no more._

So the fuck everything…

* * *

Lorena looked at the Germans without any guilt in her eyes. As they exited the building, single-file down the dark hallway, she felt no remorse. She hadn't explained the feeling in her column the same way she had explained it to Nixon later that night, but if she had, she would have been fired on the spot. _"It was like shooting someone who has beaten you down for years. It was that beautiful sort of gratification that you only see in the movies or in novels. It was brilliant."_ Lorena might not even have gone to talk to Nixon if it weren't for the fact that where she had been quartered was across the hall from Ron, who was doing pushups well into the night. As though she were in college, she snuck out of the tiny apartment and down the hall to where Lewis Nixon was awake and draining a bottle of whiskey that he had found hidden in Winters' footlocker. She knocked lightly twice and listened carefully as the footfalls got louder. He reeked of alcohol, but it didn't turn Lorena's stomach as she thought it might.

"You wanna help me get fucked up?" he asked, his words slurred.

Without hesitation, she nodded and stepped past him through the doorway. They talked and talked and drank and drank as the night wore on and the morning came. Nixon talked about his divorce, about everything, and Lorena mused in a stream-of-consciousness sort of way. Once the bottle was finished, they began to stew in their drunken thoughts, producing a conversation that was darker and more morbid than either of them ever imagined.

"We should just kill ourselves, you know. Just end this whole stupid thing," Nixon said, stifling a laugh.

"No, no. We're far too self-absorbed for that. Besides, don't you think I've tried? It's harder than it looks," Lorena said from the sofa, across which she had draped herself leisurely.

"What do you mean?"

"You think anyone can commit suicide? Well, pal, you're wrong. You have to really want to do it. I had always thought of myself as very strong-minded, determined person, but if attempting suicide five times taught me anything, it was that I'm as weak as they come. I can't commit. Ha! Commit! Oh, what a joke."

Nixon sat forward in his chair to look at her. "You tried to kill yourself five times?"

"Does that surprise you, Lewis? It shouldn't. I tried four times while Parker was alive and once after he was dead. It took me so long to realize the solution to the problem was to kill him, not myself. Afterwards, though, when I was sure that I was going to jail, all those beautiful knives that Parker had collected over the hat Parker had collected over the years were starting to look very friendly." Lorena brought her arm up to rest her head on it and curled up sideways on the sofa. "I'm not a well woman, Lewis. Not at all."

Nixon nodded in agreement. "I still think we should kill ourselves."

"You haven't listened to a word I've said, have you?"

"What? I should kill the wife instead of myself?"

"Exactly."

"That wouldn't be too bad actually. Hell, I'd give anything to shoot Kathy in the face right now. I mean, who takes a man's dog?"

Lorena cocked an eyebrow. "Didn't she take your child too?"

"Yeah. And?" Nixon asked, sounding blasé.

She stared blankly for a moment and then laughed hysterically. "Poor little thing!"

"Yeah, his mother's a bitch and his father's a drunk. What a life."

Nixon let his head slip into his hands, his body trembling with sobs. Lorena stood and grasped the edge of the end table for balance. She stumbled over to him and collapsed clumsily at his feet. She took his face in her hands and gave him a sloppy, drunk smile. "He'll get over it and if he doesn't, don't worry. You'll die before he gets a chance to really express his resentment."

Nixon looked up at her and nodded weakly. Lorena leaned in to kiss his cheek, but in his drunk haze, Nixon mistook her movement and leaned his head just enough to brush his lips against hers. She was sure that if she had been sober, she would have pulled back. She wouldn't have let her mind, so consumed with thoughts of Ron glistening with sweat, allow her lips to move against her friend's in a way that was dangerous.

But Lorena was nowhere near sober and neither was Nixon. Their tongues intertwined in a messy fashion and he pulled her onto his lap, forcing her to straddle his hips awkwardly. At that moment, guilt, heavy and strong, flooded Lorena's every thought. She fell backwards onto the floor and scrambled away from Nixon. With the back of her hand, she wiped her mouth and grimaced at her own stupidity.

Lorena stood quickly and yanked on her clothes to set them straight. Although the room was spinning, she let it carry her toward the door. "Not a word about this, Lewis. Not a single word."

Nixon was wincing. He was at an all-time low. "Never. I swear."

She nodded and rushed out of the door, down the hall, and back into her own apartment. Lorena slumped against the door as a thick bubble of cries rose in her throat. But then, the door across the hall opened. Lorena froze and listened to the Ron's footsteps as he padded, barefoot, up and down the hall. The door clicked to announce its closure and Lorena let out a whine. _Inhale_. The tears poured down in a tragic flood, soaking her shirt and the dirty floor. _Exhale._ Lorena cried herself to sleep that night and woke up a few hours later in a heap on the ground. _Inhale…_

_

* * *

_

Reviews are delectable little cupcakes.


	15. Hallelujah

**A/N: **A short chapter, but writing it was more difficult than I expected. I couldn't quite capture that raw emotion in Jeff Buckley's version of _Hallelujah _that makes it such a powerful song. But, enough of my self-deprecation. A big thank you to captain ty for the review! Hopefully the next chapter will come out sooner than this one did. Enjoy!

www . youtube . com/watch?v=y8AWFf7EAc4

Inspired by Leonard Cohen, Jeff Buckley (who created the only cover of a song that I love more than the original), and rain storms.

* * *

**XV. Hallelujah **  
_and love is not a victory march  
__it's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah _

"Say hello to Ford and General fucking Motors!" Webster shouted from the back of the troop truck as the Germans marched down the center of the road, flanked on both sides by Americans.

Lorena covered her ears to block out the noise, but between Webster's screaming, the echoing footsteps of marching, and the rumbling of Army vehicles, it was impossible. She had never had such a terrible hangover before. Sure, she had gotten them bad, but never to the point where death seemed like the only escape. Then there was the kiss, an embarrassing minute of her life that she would take to her grave. In her moment of temporary insanity (and it was insanity to do anything with Lewis Nixon, no matter how much money he came from), she had lost some of her self-respect or perhaps what was left of it. If there was one thing that Lorena knew for sure, it was that once a woman wakes up on the floor, she begins to reexamine her life. And so she did.

One: VAT 69 was not her friend. Actually, alcohol in general was not her friend, because whether it was scotch, whiskey, gin, tequila, rum or bourbon, it tricked her into to doing stupid things (like kissing men that she had no business kissing and emotionally spiraling downward). Two: while men were often the root of her psychosis, nothing would ever be able to take their place, so it was useless to try to find something that would. Three: Ron Speirs was important. There was no getting around it. The sound of him walking made her heart stop and his smile was enough to send her into a hormonal frenzy. He was important, and hiding that fact was futile.

"What the fuck are we doing here? Huh?" Webster continued.

Private Garcia had been able to stop him last time, but he was on a roll and there was no end in sight for his tirade. Lorena understood that he was angry, that he would have rather been cooped up in the library or lounging around the green pastures of Harvard University, but that was no excuse for his maniacal behavior. Finally, she decided enough was enough.

"David, sit down and shut the fuck up. They don't understand a word you're saying. You speak German, they speak German. So if you're going to talk to them, do it in German! In English, all you're doing is aggravating people and preaching to the goddamn choir. Now, sit down and be quiet or I'll shoot you in the face and throw your lifeless body into that ditch."

Until the convoy reached Landsberg, they were silent.

* * *

Winters ordered several groups to go on patrol in the woods surrounding the town of Landsberg. Bull, George Luz, Frank Perconte, Pat Christenson, Joe Lesniewski, and the replacement Patrick O'Keeffe made up one of them, and Lorena tagged along. She was desperate to get away from the noise of the people, of Ron's cold eyes, of everything. She loaded the handgun and let the hard, heavy weight of it rest in her palm. The comfort she felt with the weapon was almost alarming, but it removed any doubt that she might have had about the state of her mind.

"Hey, George, does this kinda remind you of Bastogne?" Perconte asked as the seven of them trampled through the German woods.

"Sure, Frank. 'Cept, of course, there's no snow, we got warm grub in our bellies, and the trees are fucking exploding from Kraut artillery. But, yeah, Frank, other than that, it's a lot like Bastogne," Luz said sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

"Right," Perconte said, looking up at the high, in-tact tree tops.

"Bull, smack him for me, please." _Thump. _"Thank you."

"Why don't you have Lorena keep him in line? She sure told Webster a thing or two," Joe said with a smirk.

"Ha! 'I'll shoot you in the face and throw your lifeless body into a ditch,'" Luz mimicked. "I don't think I'd have thought any less of you if you did."

Lorena smiled as she walked between Bull and the jumpy replacement. For the first time since she had arrived in Europe, Lorena felt as though she belonged. After she suffered with them through the hell of Bastogne, the men no longer cared about her prior crimes. Whether she was a killer or a murder wasn't important. She was a soldier, a Daughter of Mars, and that was all that mattered to them.

"Good to know, George."

All of a sudden, an eerie quiet filled the air and they halted in the middle, beneath the creaking trees. They moved slowly toward the tree line, the branches snapping beneath their boots. As a clearing came into view, seven stomachs churned and seven hearts physically ached. _Star light, star bright…_

* * *

When Ron caught his first glimpse at the camp, his heart rose into his throat. The stench alone made his organs spasm, but the sight of all those walking skeletons broke him. As the gates opened and the 101st started to enter into the hell, the men in the striped uniforms reached out to them. Ron shuddered as a frail hand grazed his arm and he forced himself to take it all in. From thatched-roof huts, more of them emerged and hobbled toward their liberators. A thick bubble of emotions, each melding into the other, lodged in his throat and choked him. He didn't speak, didn't open his mouth in fear of crying openly. Instead, his face twisted into grimace and he ground his teeth together until his jaws hurt. The underworld that he had heard about in Sunday school was nothing compared the steaming hades that surrounded him. Those men had spoken blindly of hell, of torture, of eternal damnation. Those men were fools. They knew nothing.

Meanwhile, Lorena hadn't noticed Ron or any of the others pass by her. Bull knelt at her feet, his head lowered and his mind trying to process. She kept a reassuring hand on his tense shoulder. As she looked around, the men covered their horrified faces and the prisoners cried into their shirt fronts. The sorrow was thick, dense as the smoke that filled the spring air. Lorena could feel it settle on her chest like a heavy weight, one that had her knees buckling beneath her. A wail came from beyond the fence, a long cry in a foreign language. She listened to the sound with despair. Then, she caught a glimpse of the charred bodies, the limp arms that dangled from gaunt frames. Lorena Carlyle thought she understood loss and pain and suffering. She thought she knew oppression and cruelty and ugliness. She knew nothing.

Years ago, when Parker had called her a _fucking spoiled Yankee brat_, Lorena accepted it as a result of his fondness of Tennessee whiskey and his bad attitude. Of course, when she recalled the night later, she realized that he hadn't been drinking at all and that he hadn't been entirely wrong. She had been a debutante; spent the Dirty Thirties in Chanel gowns and imported jewelry … she knew more about luxury than she ever knew about anguish. Her scars were nothing compared to the horrors of the rest of the world.

"Nothin' is ever good enough for you. You ain't ever happy. So, people gave you hell 'cause your mama was an eyetie. Your daddy was one of the richest men in Boston and you could pay to have half those people killed. But, here you are, still fucking complaining. Such a brat…"

Lorena stared solemnly, her faith in humanity (and herself) finally dead and gone. Ron, his eyes clouded with tears, met hers through the wire fence. He wanted to run to her, to embrace her, to break down on her shoulder. At that moment, he needed a friend, a best friend, and she needed someone to hold her hand.

They all did.

_How does one begin to describe Hell? Dante tried in his Inferno, but in his detailed tour he forgot to mention the one many American troops found themselves in today. I have watched these men survive through the harshest winter known to man. I have watched as their friends have fallen to Kraut artillery and they fought through their own personal sorrow. I have watched them starve, freeze, and come out on the other side with a light still shining in their eyes. But today, I saw tears in the eyes of these iron men. I saw their hearts break, their souls die, their faith diminish. _

_What I witnessed today was worse than Hell. It was Purgatory: an inescapable limbo that will consume me for the rest of my days. When the pictures of these camps are shown stateside, I ask of you, readers, do not look away. It will be difficult, nearly impossible, but please, look at the footage captured by the other correspondents. Have a moment of silence, remember, and make sure that nothing like this ever happens again. _

* * *

Sleep had evaded Ron that night. He had been lying in bed for hours, his eyes squeezed tight to shut out the harsh glare of the street lamp that came through his window. He had gotten up at least ten times to go see Lorena. He had thrown on a pair of pants and a decent shirt, pulled on his boots, and made it halfway there before he turned around again. Just once, he made it all the way to her door, but couldn't gather enough nerve to actually make his presence known. So, when a soft knock came at his door at a quarter past midnight, he didn't groan and grumble as he flicked the light on and crossed the room. Lorena stood silently in the entryway, her black eyes cast downward. She was dressed in a skirt and pressed shirt, an outfit Ron hadn't seen since October 1944. He hadn't realized how much he missed it.

"May I come in?" she asked as she flicked her eyes up.

"Of course."

Holding the door open, Ron stood to one side and let her pass. Her heels clacked against the wooden floor, disturbing the still night air that settled in around them. The door clicked shut and Ron leaned against it. He folded his arms across his chest and Lorena stood awkwardly in the middle of the room. Her hands shook as she struggled to remember what to say to Ron, but his bare legs, covered only at the top by a pair of shorts, distracted her.

"I hope I didn't wake you," she said, still a product of her upbringing.

"No, I couldn't sleep, but neither could you, I guess."

"Well, actually," she began, "I wanted to say something to you. To tell you something."

"I figured as much."

Lorena scoffed. "Ha, yes. Ron, I… I'm sorry. I'm sorry for—for so much I barely know where to start. But being in that place today, it made me realize that my problems are so minuscule compared to what's occurring in the rest of the world. Then I went to women's camp and—it was worse than the men's camp, I think. They were bleeding and sick and had lost their daughters to typhus and their sons and husbands were gone and… I'm so selfish. For the longest time, I've been running around the world going 'poor, poor pitiful me,' when all these other things were going on. Parker was right: I'm nothing more than a brat and I'm sorry."

Ron stepped away from the door toward her. "You're selfish? You had just found out your father was dead and I was more worried about—"

"Please, Ron, you barely think of yourself. You are possibly the least selfish—"

"Maybe, but I should have—"

"No, no. How could you have—"

Their bodies were touching by the time they finished interrupting one another. Ron's hands were placed at the small of Lorena's back and her hands found themselves cradling his face. An electricity surged in the tiny space that remained between them and each tiny movement of their chests, hips, and thighs created an invisible spark.

"I missed you," he said.

Lorena's fingers ran through Ron's hair as he dipped his head down to capture her mouth with his own. Heat radiated from their cores and spread quickly. Ron relinquished his control willingly, allowing Lorena to take over; to guide him and lead him. She kissed all along his collarbone and left faded lipstick marks on his neck. Ron pressed himself against her inner thigh. She released a carnal moan and pulled back to look into his eyes.

Ron distinctly remembered the first time he saw her dark orbs staring back at him. They were hazy and soft and full of stars, a stark contrast to the next several times he saw them. But in the moment before their consummation, the stone-like quality that they once held had disappeared and in its place: espresso, rich and robust. Though, whether hard or soft, in the windows to her twisted soul, he found a kindred spirit. And he loved her.

"Please be gentle with me," she whispered as he unbuttoned her shirt and freed her breasts. "Amore mio… Il mio cuore è per voi."

_And from your lips she drew the hallelujah… Hallelujah…_

_

* * *

_

Review, Review! Or I'll be blue.


	16. Time Has Told Me

**A/N: **This has been a long-time coming and, for that, I apologize. I have had bits and pieces of this chapter written for ages, but I struggled to find a way to piece it all together. Enjoy!

Inspired by Nick Drake and my cat, who was both an inspiration and a hindrance. www . youtube . com/watch?v= o1tWbJtBpyE

RIP Maj. Winters

* * *

**XVI. Time Has Told Me  
**_time has told me  
__you're a rare, rare find  
__a troubled cure  
for a troubled mind_

Sunlight and laughter filled the temporary bedroom of Captain Ron Speirs, whose limbs were tangled with those of a glowing war correspondent. Lorena rested her head on Ron's chest and smiled, listening to the thudding of her lover's heart.

"Do you have any idea how deliriously happy you make me?" she asked as she rolled onto her stomach to look at his face.

"I have a pretty good idea," he answered with a smirk. "You probably woke up half the battalion."

Lorena laughed. "Okay, so I'm a screamer. Sue me."

Ron smiled, flashing all of his beautiful teeth. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers. Lorena reached up and touched the side of his face, her fingertips edging his strong jawline. Ron smirked again and let out a low chuckle.

"What?"

"Nothing, just… look, don't take this the wrong way—"

"Oh no…"

"No, no. It's just I can't believe I'm only the second man you've ever been with. Maybe it's a stupid question, but where did you learn how to do that?"

"Do what?" Lorena asked, confused.

"That thing with your legs. That was—"

Lorena smacked him playfully, laughing. "Ron, stop it. You'll get yourself all hot and bothered again. Besides, we need to have a serious discussion about this."

"Ugh, not one of those," Ron groaned, rolling his eyes.

For the first time since he was a teenager, he felt like one. He felt young and carefree and – dare he think it – happy. Or perhaps it was more akin to the feeling a bridegroom was meant to have on his honeymoon. The sensation of unreserved ecstasy mixed with weightlessness. If he leapt from a building, he would probably soar. Lorena too shared his sentiment of joy. In truth, she had feared making love to Ron, and not because she thought his hands on her would remind her of Parker and send her spiraling into a panic attack. Lorena had hated sex for so long that she wasn't sure if she would ever be able to enjoy it, no matter how scrumptious the man happened to be. Then Ron, after removing all of her clothes, kissed a path down her stomach, teased her inner thighs, and went where Parker never dared. With Parker, she hadn't been much of anything, but with Ron… oh, yes, she was definitely a screamer.

"Yes, one of those. First, we have to decide what to do from here. I mean, do we keep it a secret? Do we climb onto the rooftops and shout it to the world? When the war ends, do we just return to the lives we had before? Forget any of this ever—"

"No," Ron said abruptly. "I'll write to Beatrice today. After last night… Christ, I sound like so goddamn ridiculous. I guess this is what it means to be cooking with stardust."

Lorena kissed him again. "Well, that's settled then."

"Yes, it is."

She relaxed against Ron's chest once more, pressing her exposed body against his. She smiled contently. Her mind was gone, no longer working for her, and her physical impulses had all of the control. But still, she refused for her body to become a battleground for other topics. Sex with Ron, although it changed a lot of things, it would not change her stance on certain life choices she made. She would always write and work; she would never attend another worthless luncheon or dinner party. She would never marry and she would never feel guilty for it. And while Ron traced the scars on her back, Lorena hoped that she would never have to explain why.

"You know, out of all ten of the commandments, I never imagined I'd break the sixth one."

Ron raised an eyebrow. "What does _that_ have to do with _this_?" he asked, motioning to their bodies.

"What do you mean? The sixth commandment has everything to do with this."

"No it doesn't," Ron said, snorting at the ridiculousness of the conversation.

"Yes, Ron, it does."

"Lorena," he sighed. "What does 'Thou shall not kill' have to do with us sleeping together?"

She laughed suddenly, causing the bed to shake in its frame. "That's not the sixth commandment, you idiot! The sixth commandment is 'You shall not commit adultery.'"

"According to who?"

"The Pope."

Ron sat up and Lorena rolled onto her back. She folded her arms over her breasts and waited for a retort. "Well, that explains it! I'm going by the Bible and you're going by the Pope."

Lorena scoffed in mock indignation. "No, you're basing your opinion on the Protestant faith and I'm basing my fact on the Catholic faith."

"Oh, is that so?" Ron said, smiling again. He knelt over her and began to tickle her sides. "Admit it, I'm right. Come on, admit it!"

Lorena squirmed and laughed, trying desperately to evade Ron's fingertips. "Never!"

Ron, also laughing, fell back beside her. Finally, when they were silent, but still smiling; they turned onto their sides to face each other. Ron pushed a stray lock of Lorena's ebony hair out of her eyes and she placed a leisurely kiss on his palm. The scars on her face, the ones across one side of her forehead, were visible in the soft sunlight. Ron tried not to stare, but the fact that the beautiful, intelligent woman before him ever had to suffer at the hands of a brute like Parker Hollis infuriated him. In fact, several times, while he was exploring her body, he had nearly lost his erection because of his anger over the thick, shimmering scars on her stomach, her thighs, her shoulders, her knees, her throat…

"I suppose either way we're guilty, aren't we?" Lorena said.

"Bound for hell, the both of us."

"At least we'll be in good company."

Ron grinned and kissed her fully on the mouth, his tongue running along the smooth seam of her lips.

"We'll never get out of bed if you keep doing that," Lorena said against his mouth.

"That's the plan, love. That's the plan."

* * *

Long ago, Lorena had read an article about the ghost towns of the Old West. Once prosperous mining communities, the frontier settlements were abandoned by workers after the busts. They left their stores and homes as permanent fixtures on a dusty landscape to rot in the wind and the heat. Berchtesgaden, home to the leaders of the Third Reich, was the European equivalent. Only white flags, hung from the windows of every home, remained, but the Americans were on high alert, just in case. At the end of the winding cobblestone street, a dark, massive building loomed. Red banners hung from either side indicating that it had housed a man more powerful and more evil than the others. Lorena suggested burning it to the ground and throughout the convoy, heads nodded in concurrence.

They wandered inside and Lorena removed a camera from her utility bag. McGalahan had sent it after her tear-jerking piece on the Landsberg camp, hoping that she could capture more jarring moments in her travels. She had written to him immediately receiving the gift, saying that they were headed to Hitler's former home and genuinely expected to see something worthwhile, but apparently the Führer had been giving orders from beyond the grave. The SS had launched guerilla warfare high in the mountains, blocking the roads leading inbound to their totalitarian sanctuary. For hours, 2nd Battalion rested in the sun, firing mortars at the giant pile of rubble and setting off grenades, while they waited for the engineers. Finally, they were told to load into the trucks and the jeeps. They found a new way up, one that led them to the very home of the man who had brought them halfway across the world, into the middle of gunfire and death and destruction. The man who killed all of those innocent people… Lorena started looking for matches.

It was, without a doubt, the darkest place in Germany, in a very literal sense. The only light came from the sun that filtered in through the high windows, but not even that could chase away the shadows that lingered in every nook and cranny of the immaculate hotel. A bear, stuffed and positioned into a towering stance, was placed near the front desk, where the clerk tried to make off with the guestbook. Antlers hung on the walls, mixing with the various wooden elements that were featured heavily in the buildings' architecture and design. Berchtesgaden wasn't the home to a world leader; it was a glorified hunting lodge: a gaudy display of wealth and power in Central Europe. _Positively disgusting._

Lorena and Ron walked side by side through the dining room, where Winters and Welsh were packing silverware into their helmets. Ron reached down between the two men.

"Nice," he said as Welsh took a hold of his forearm roughly.

"Don't even think about it," he snapped.

Lorena smiled as Ron's face expressed nothing but total bewilderment. Winters smirked as well and slowly continued to take fistfuls of forks and spoons. Soon enough, Ron was shoving silver dishes into his bag. Lorena sauntered up beside him.

"What do you need those for?" she asked.

"We can sell them."

"Did I never mention that I'm incredibility well-off? No, really, you have traded up economically."

Ron gave her a sideways glance, one that was meant to wipe the smirk clear off of her face. Instead, it grew into a grin. "You are a darling, you know that?"

"I do."

Lorena turned her back to him and surveyed the room. Just above her, a portrait of Hitler hung on the wall. She rolled her eyes dramatically. She lifted the camera to her eyes and took a picture, chuckling softly to herself. The hotel, in general, was a shrine to Hitler, one that he thrived in. It was an unbridled display of egotism that made every American tycoon seem tame. Berchtesgaden, though, was only the beginning. Just up the mountain, the Eagle's Nest waited and Easy Company was sent to take it, a final triumph for the history textbooks. _And the second Winters' gave the green light, E Company was off like a shot, barreling up the slope as though it were their beloved Currahee, shouting, "Hi-ho silver!" all the way to the top. _

* * *

When Sergeant Grant and Sergeant Malarkey opened the polished wooden doors of the Eagle's Nest, Lorena gasped. She had tried to imagine what the secluded retreat of Adolf Hitler would look like, but nothing came to close to the reality that faced her. It was constructed entirely of some type of gray stone, one that provided no warmth, no comfort; nothing that would ever make a sane person want to spend any amount of time there. Even the harsh floral print of the armchairs and rugs made Lorena feel unwelcomed.

Open bottles of champagne rested in buckets of melted ice on the wooden tables and Private More took a manly swig as he went from window to window. Behind on of the ugly chairs, a body laid face down on the floor. Ron walked briskly over to it and motioned for Lorena to stay where she was. Just as Ron stood, the former German officer's gun in his hand, Malarkey opened a chilled bottle, causing Ron to flinch.

"Here's to him," he toasted.

Lorena nodded and picked up another bottle of champagne. "I'll drink to that," she said.

And so did everyone else.

* * *

The view from the Eagle's Nest was beyond picturesque. It was postcard quality beauty that deserved more than Lorena's equipment could give it. Winters had announced that the war in Europe was over. Germany had surrendered and the years they had spent fighting and training to fight had paid off. It was over and no one quite knew what to say or do. It was equal parts relief and euphoria. Ron stopped drinking and tried to wrap his head around the idea of his own freedom. Then the sweet smell of Lorena's hair and body drifted through the open doors and he tried everything not to think about her naked. Finally, when he got enough self-control, he ventured out onto the balcony. He leaned against the stone column and watched Lorena, her face unreadable. He was quiet for a moment or two, and after he spoke, Lorena wished he had just kept his mouth shut.

"I think we should get married."

"Ron, what are you talking about?" she asked without looking in his direction. A statement like that didn't deserve eye contact.

"I'm talking about you and me in a church, with a priest or a reverend or a rabbi or something. You know, married. It's not like you've never done it before."

His voice sounded the same: solid, cool as a cucumber; but his mannerisms were different. He was twitchy, anxious. Lorena hoped it was just the champagne talking, the tiny bubbles and the altitude making his judgment hazy. But Ron was serious. He was always serious.

"Must we talk about this here?"

"Why not?"

Lorena wasn't in the mood for his Romeo impression. She supposed that, like all men, he thought the gesture romantic. Perhaps, he thought bringing up marriage so casually, so abruptly, gave the concept an idealistic quality that, she knew, it indeed lacked.

"Ron, you have become a starry-eyed lunatic. You're right, I have been married before. It took me away from work and put me in a strange city with nothing but obligations. Marriage shouldn't be about obligations. You should know that."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Ron asked, trying to keep his voice down. Her tone had a definite implication and he was getting frustrated. "Why don't you want to marry me?"

"Oh, please, don't start. We've just gotten ourselves together. Don't ruin it by acting all insulted or horrified by my different ideals. You knew that I wasn't like other women when you met me, Ron. Nothing in the world – no, not even your penis – would make me change so drastically."

Ron clenched his jaw tight; he thought he might have cracked a few teeth. There were times when it was impossible to have a discussion with Lorena, especially when she refused to budge from an idea. For the sake of their relationship, he disregarded her stubbornness and dismissed it as some monthly female issue.

"I know that," he said. "It's what I lo—what I admire most about you. But how is getting married going to ruin your ideals? It's just a piece of paper and two rings."

"Exactly," she said, taking another picture of the sun-bathed mountain tops.

"Okay, fine. You want me to make a fool out of myself," he growled. "It's a public declaration of—"

"Of what?" Lorena asked with a low laugh. "Love? You couldn't say it now, so what makes you think you could say it publicly?"

"I didn't say it because I didn't know how you'd take it. Believe it or not, I'm not as hardhearted as some would have you think."

Lorena sighed and put the camera away in her bag. She leaned against the wall and looked at him with a soft expression. "Ron, I know you're not, and you can say whatever you like, but after you do, you have explain why. Without a logical explanation, they're just words. Just three little words that mean so little without justification. Besides, some people nowadays only get married to keep the local gossips from talking. I never took you for a person who cared about the stories. Personally, I'd rather live in sin for the rest of life than ever marry again."

Ron turned away from her and stared out across the mountainous landscape. His mind slowly came to terms with Lorena's words and he tried to rationalize his own discontent. Marriage, in all actuality, _was_ more symbolic than it was rational. Why had he married in the first place? Had he done so because he loved the British widow or had he done it to prove something to himself? To demonstrate to the world that he wasn't a blood-thirsty killer, but a man with some sense of emotion? Ron had never given any thought to it before and because of this, Lorena's indifference to the institution of matrimony was an eye-opener.

He also never really thought of why he loved Lorena Carlyle. Daily, he found another trait to add to the long laundry list of things he loved about her, but he didn't have it written down on a piece of paper. He didn't have it memorized so he could run through it at will. He just knew that, without a doubt, he could see his entire future when he looked at her. He could see them side by side, equals… partners. She was, and would always be, more than a wife or a lover. Lorena, to Ron, was a best friend, a _meilleure amie_; the only one he ever truly had.

When he told her that, Lorena didn't speak. She simply smiled and tilted her face more directly towards the warm sun. Finally, after a long minute of silence, her red lips parted.

"I love you too."

* * *

On cool, spring nights, Lorena missed her cat.

Vienna, a slinky Egyptian Mau who would have been a waif if she had been human, had been Lorena's confidante and her saving grace. In the moments when Lorena was one trigger pull away from death, Vienna would jump daintily into her lap and purr loudly. While she typed up her articles, the cat nestled on her legs and gently took some of her mistress' arm between her teeth: a feline equivalent to a kiss.

At that moment, her baby girl was living the high life with Lorena's only friend in Georgia: another writer named Franklin Stein. Franklin was, like Lorena, an outcast in southern society. A Jew and a known Communist, he didn't fear speaking his mind. His books, while all the rage in places like New York and California, were ill-received in the straight-laced former Confederacy. But Franklin's boyfriend, Richmond Hamilton, refused to leave the Old South where he had carved out a fantastic living as a skilled interior designer. When Lorena announced that she would be leaving for Europe, Franklin jumped at the chance to take care of little Vienna Marie. Before she knew it, her cat went from having to share an apartment to having her own room in a grand 3-story country home just thirty minutes outside of the capital. Certainly, she wasn't missing Lorena at all.

Although she had Ron's comforting weight and warmth in the bed next to her, she missed the soft sound of Vienna's purr to help her fall asleep. But, as the noises of celebration echoed in the distance, Lorena rejoiced. Soon, she would return to her cat, her home, and her country… with love in her heart and a companion for her bright future. In her eyes, despite all that had happened and all that remained uncertain, it was a brand new world.

* * *

Reviews warm the cockles of my cold, little heart.


	17. When I Fall

**A/N: **Yeah, this chapter. It's pretty much whatever. Not my best, for sure. Total filler and fluff here, except for the first and the last part.  
www . youtube . com/watch?v=HZMm8Mh0Mzc

Inspired by Sam Phillips and _The Sound of Music._

* * *

**XVII. When I Fall  
**_control is letting go  
and i'm the last to know_

May 10, 1945  
Somewhere in Italy

A young man with a tan face opened his dark eyes and found himself surrounded by nothing but white. _Is this heaven? It doesn't smell like heaven. It smells like – _He struggled to sit up, his leg bound in a cast, which was elevated by some contraption. Other men were asleep in the beds next to his and the distinct sound of medical equipment beeped quietly in the background. He turned to find a blonde woman in a nurse's uniform coming toward him.

"Where am I?" he asked as she bent down to check his vitals.

"A hospital in Northern Italy, honey," she answered in a syrupy, sweet Southern voice. "You've got a broken leg and some mild bruising, but it's nothing that time and rest won't fix."

He shook his head, his black hair flopping across his face. "How did that happen? How did I get here? Wh—What year is it, even?"

The nurse, Deborah, smiled and pulled a chair next to the handsome man's bed. "We're not sure how it happened, hon. We were all hoping you could tell us now that you're awake."

His thick eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "Now that I'm awake?"

"Yes. You've been in a coma for five months. You finally opened your eyes eight days ago, the same day the Italians finally ended things. Pretty miraculous, huh? As for how you got here, one of the Canadian units found you and three other boys, but they weren't quite as lucky as you," she said.

"Five months? So this isn't still 1944?" the man asked.

"No, honey. This is May 1945. The Germans and the Italians have surrendered. Now, we're all just waitin' on the Japanese. Other than them, it's all over."

The man's breath caught in his throat. His head was spinning and his limbs were shaking. Deborah touched his hand and smiled at him. "Hey, it's okay. Everything is going to be okay. I'm going to go and fetch your doctors, alright? But, first, tell me something, honey. Do you remember your name?"

"Yes. Carlyle. Lorenzo Carlyle."

* * *

"Love is a 'many splendored thing.' It is the desire for intimacy and the willingness to be vulnerable. It is rejoicing in the presence of the other, a commitment to the wider causes of the other. It is friendship. And it rests upon a solid sense of the self's own worth, and, ultimately, upon a deep sense of cosmic acceptance, of being at home in the universe." – John Nelson, _Between the Gardens_, 1983

* * *

Soldiers from several companies packed into a tiny, dimly-lit room like anchovies to view the canned news about the Pacific Theatre. Many of the men – especially the new replacements – grimaced at the sight of the men on the stretchers and the explosions that flashed across the large screen. Lorena stood stock-still next to Ron and the other officers, filling with harsh, distant memories as the images of men covered in blood were presented.

In moments such as those, Ron's steady presence would feel alien. She had lived in fear for so long that his existence was like a pleasant dream from which she never wanted to wake. It was impossible for Lorena to wrap her head around the idea that he was not a figment of her imagination, but a living, breathing organism for her to touch and love. Yet, as the announcer's voice continued on about the horrors that the Marines faced against the Japanese, the dark, pessimistic side of Lorena's personality chided her glass-half-full side that had prevailed throughout much of her childhood and her collegiate years. _Life is so fleeting. What a fool you are for thinking this joy and stability could last._

It was the idea of her brother, though, that brought a watery blur to her vision. She could only imagine his eyes – his espresso-colored eyes that had always been so full of warmth – void of life in a ditch somewhere in the Italian countryside. Lorena swallowed hard at the thought and cast it away painfully. It was the one thing that she could not dwell on for fear of truly dying of a broken heart.

The lights came on once more and the men began to quickly file out of the room, their minds and bodies filled with anxiety, dread, rage, and excitement in equal amounts. Ron squeezed Lorena's hand tight as they exited the smoky room, almost as if he could read her mind. But Ron's own mind had been too busy to attempt to decode Lorena's. The two of them had spoken earlier, at length, about the war in the Pacific. Since V-E Day, Ron had been debating whether or not to remain in the Army. The truth of the matter was, Ron had enough points to return to the States and never look back, but he had found out something rather significant about himself since joining the war: he looked damn good in fatigues and they felt more comfortable than anything else he had ever worn in his life. Lorena, of course, knew that no matter where Ron went or what he decided, _she_ was going to follow 2nd Battalion to the ends of the Earth. Whether it was her duty or her destiny was unknown, but either way, she wouldn't leave until their story was finished, until she had an ending; a closing paragraph that was worthy of the men she had gotten to know.

"Only, what will you do if you go home and I jump on Tokyo?" she asked as they lay lazily in bed, her arm draped across Ron's bare stomach.

"I'd wait for you. I'd wait until the day I died."

Lorena could help but stifle a laugh, which she disguised as a satisfied grin. It wasn't in Ronald Speirs' nature to be so forthcoming with his words. His emotions, as of late, were always showing (and his men were beginning to realize it more and more), but his words had grown to be sentimental and tender. Yet, she knew that he was being neither untruthful nor insincere. She could easily tell the difference. Whether the alteration in his demeanor was caused by the war's rapid changes or theirs, though, remained a mystery to her. Either way, she relished in it, as any woman might, but for different reasons than many may have thought. Although she thoroughly enjoyed having him near her, she no longer _needed_ him for strength – for stability – but his words demonstrated that _he_ needed _her_. He needed her to move alongside of him through life to make him feel like a complete human being. Some might have called it a revolution, but they would have been wrong, for their love was a renaissance.

* * *

Lorena listened half-heartedly as several voices filled the dark room and she slipped in and out of sleep. She knew one of them was Ron's voice: she could pick that gruff tone out of a crowd anytime, anyplace, anywhere. The other she thought belonged to Sgt. Floyd Talbert from Easy. The two others she didn't recognize, especially not in her state. The reporter in her wanted to sit up, find a clean shirt, and go running after the footsteps that disappeared down the hall immediately after the cacophony of a closing door. But her body wouldn't budge. She could just picture herself, like she was twenty again: her heels clacking against the pavement, her hair in wild disarray. Lorena smiled sleepily at the thought, almost as if in a drunken haze. A hand tightened on her shoulder and jolted her from her reverie.

"Lorena, get up," Ron said. He sounded rushed, angry, practically worried. She hated when he sounded that way.

"What is it?" she asked; all evidence of slumber automatically gone from her being.

"Grant's been shot. I've got to go take care of this. I'm gonna go with Doc and Talbert down to the surgeon right now to see what can be done, if anything. I need you to find out who did this. Use those investigative skills, won't you?"

Lorena nodded. She had been haphazardly putting on her uniform while Ron was talking and was nearly finished lacing her boots up by the time he placed a goodbye kiss on her lips. "Wait, Ron!" she called after him. "Do you want him dead or alive?"

"Alive. But I'll understand if he's not by the time I get back."

And with that, he was gone.

* * *

_The exact details of what happened to Sgt. Chuck Grant will never be fully disclosed. The two witnesses, replacements to Easy Company, were in shock when I spoke to them hours after the incident and the shooter… well, let me just say that, between the amount of alcohol he consumed and the doctors that have wired his jaw shut to heal it, it isn't likely that he'll be able to speak about it for quite a while. Nevertheless, I sought the story of Grant's wound. _

_From what I gathered from the two men who were there, Grant exited the jeep when the three of them came upon several empty vehicles and several dead bodies. The shooter, a replacement from Item Company, 3__rd__ Battalion, was waving his gun around in a drunken manner and shouting. When Grant attempted to stop him from stealing the jeep of the British officer he had already killed, the replacement swung his arm up and squeezed the trigger once, putting a single bullet into Grant's skull. I realize, readers, that that may sound harsh, perhaps callous, but I assure you, it is all worthwhile. If nothing else, it shows the effect that boredom and alcohol can have on an armed man. Although by day, this replacement was a trained soldier, by night, he was an armed and dangerous civilian with – as a neighbor of mine once said – no more sense than God gave a lemon. After such a long war, there is no doubt that these men deserve some form of relaxation and release, but should it be at the expense of the lives of others?_

_Whether or not this is the true account of how Sgt. Grant ended up in the care of a Kraut brain surgeon (and expected to survive), the world may never know, but one thing certainly is for sure: tonight, the men of Easy Company and I were forced to rethink our opinions about Captain Ronald Speirs. The stories surrounding Easy Co.'s commanding officer are legendary amongst those in the 506__th__ PIR and tonight, a situation was put in front of him that might have added another into the circulation…_

Lorena stared at her last paragraph. Her face twisted into a grimace of dissatisfaction. She pulled the paper from her typewriter and immediately blacked the sentences out. Some of the events that Lorena had witnessed, she thought, belonged to the world: the discovery of the Landsberg camp, Winters' strength as a leader, the crowd of the liberated Dutch along Hell's Highway in Holland, Dike's incompetence, the camaraderie amongst the men, Bavaria and the Eagle's Nest, the death of the soldiers in the Ardennes, the endurance of the medics, the sound of the men's laughter in the bleakest of times…

Some things, though… well, those moments belonged to them. The tears shed for a fallen friend, Nixon's nightcaps, the way they all molded together in their foxholes, how much Winters truly hated his position as Battalion XO, and, finally, how Easy Company learned that the stories about Ron (probably) weren't entirely true…

* * *

Easy Company followed Floyd Talbert out into the foyer, pulling their jackets and shirts over their exposed arms and chests. Lorena felt mildly claustrophobic as she fell into step amongst them.

"He wants a non-com guarding each roadblock and at least two men watching every road out of town. Bull, Malark: you each pick a squad and one of these witnesses on a house to house search," Talbert said, his youthful face darkening as he stormed ahead.

Bull came up alongside of Lorena and she felt herself exhale. Since their day in hiding in Holland, she knew not to worry when he was around. He offered her a nod as they walked through the dim corridor and she returned it, just as they always did. Webster, his usually perfect hair mussed from sleep, also nodded and Lorena gave his shoulder a light squeeze.

"Can we shoot this bastard on sight?" Don Malarkey asked, slinging his gun across his chest.

"Try and take him alive," Talbert said.

"But if there isn't any other way, then by all means," Lorena said, and although she thought she had spoken softly enough that no one would hear her, several heads turned to look at her. Each pair of eyes that found hers in that room still (partly) expected her to be joking – she wasn't.

Ron, who was speeding down a cobblestone road miles away, wasn't joking either. He sat, rigid as boulder, in the passenger seat of a jeep, his gun aimed directly at the Kraut surgeon's balls. A man from his company (from his battalion, from his regiment) was inches away from Death's door thanks to sheer stupidity. It was waste. And there was nothing that Ron hated more than waste. He hated when he had to give up a pair of jeans that he hadn't worn a hole through yet. He hated when Bea would scrape leftovers into the trashcan. He hated when Lorena hid herself away because of one stupid man and one brave choice. He hated when the lives of good men, like Grant, were threatened because of drunk fuck-ups who thought they had nothing better to do.

At that moment, Ron was full of hate. It moved through his veins like water and then built up in his thin blood vessels like sludge from an oil refinery. His body thrummed with the rhythmic pulsing of the heated animosity as it pushed its way through to his heart and his brain and his hand, where his finger rested on the trigger of the cold gun. Suddenly, Ron could taste the distinctly metallic tang of iron on his tongue. He could feel a warmth spreading through his mouth and a fire in his face. It wasn't until later that he realized that what he had tasted was his own blood from where he had bitten down too hard on the inside of his cheek.

Meanwhile, Lorena sat behind George Luz on a round ottoman while he played poker with Talbert. The sound of fists against face came again and again from behind the closed door, where Easy Company had gathered around the man who had shot Grant. Luz, unfazed, continued with his hand, and then passed the deck off to Talbert to shuffle. Talbert glanced up at Lorena each time the man groaned or the deafening smack of skin on skin was heard. She was sure that part of him was gauging a reaction and another part was looking for her to go in with her victim perspective and stop the whole thing. But Floyd Talbert had to do a double-take to see if she was even breathing. Her eyelids, which closed ever so often, were the only things that gave any indication that she was aware of what was occurring at all.

If only he could have seen inside her head…

If he had, he would have been bombarded with every memory she ever had of Parker's hands at her throat, him gripping her arms and shaking her; the scar in the shape of all of his teeth on the underside of her right breast; the sting of his thick, studded leather belt; the blood-curdling pain of him entering her without her consent more times than she cared to remember; the smell of the blood as it dripped from her legs, her neck, her arms, her chest, her face; the pressure of his boot heel against her windpipe; the sound of his knuckles cracking her ribs. But then… then he would have seen Parker Hollis' lifeless body at her stiletto-clad feet, a fresh bullet wound in his chest. He would have seen the empty blue eyes, the contortioned pose that he had fallen into, the massive ocean of rich, warm blood. He would have seen the face that she saw when she passed the mirror in the hallway: broken, bleeding, triumphant.

There was one fundamental difference between Floyd Talbert's reaction and Lorena's reaction: Talbert saw no glory or sense in revenge and vindication, and that was _all_ that Lorena saw.

As soon as she opened her eyes, Lorena could hear Ron's quick, heavy steps. Without even seeing him, she could tell he was carrying his weight differently and as he pushed one of the light double doors to the sitting room open, her gaze instantly went to the gun in his hand. Lorena, Talbert, and Luz stood straightaway.

"Where is he?" Ron said authoritatively.

"How's Grant?" Talbert asked, beating Lorena to it.

"Where is he?" he repeated, his tone becoming more agitated.

"Is he okay?" Lorena asked, moving to stand in front of him.

"WHERE IS HE?" Ron shouted, only to be answered by a loud smack.

Talbert and Luz stood, immobile; their mouths open. Ron's head was turned away from Lorena and a large, red splotch grew more pronounced on his cheek. Lorena lowered her hand to her side, where it was firmly balled into a fist. She did not look away from him nor did she relax her shoulders from their squared position. Both the slap and the tense position of her body had become instinctual behaviors, reflexes in the wake of a raised voice. She slapped him as a warning, but her muscles firmed in anticipation of the imminent blows. Ron slowly turned to look at her, straight-on. Talbert and Luz watched with bated breath, their eyes wide with confusion (and fear). Ron swallowed hard and his nostrils flared, but then – as two of his soldiers looked on – he lowered his gaze to the floor and back up to meet hers shamefully, submitting to her without saying a word.

"I'm sorry," he said, causing Lorena to relax her hands.

The dark, defiant stare that had consumed her features disappeared and she placed her open palm, gently, on the side of his face. Fresh, apologetic tears welled up in her eyes. "I am, too." With a nod of her head, she directed him to where the man was being held and Ron walked calmly toward the room as if nothing had happened between them.

Lorena leaned against the door frame with a shaky sigh and lit a cigarette. Ron laid the butt of his gun into the private's jaw with a sickening crack. Blood and saliva spewed from his mouth and sprayed across the room. He coughed pathetically, gurgling in pain.

"When you talk to an officer, you say sir," Ron snapped.

After a few moments of listening to the private's coughing, Ron became annoyed. He drew his arm up and straight, cocking the hammer back and aiming the muzzle at the private's face. A few of the men around him, Perconte, Malarkey, Christenson, and Bull, all took a few steps back, even though they knew that when Ron pulled the trigger everyone in the room would be covered in blood. But Lorena knew the situation better than they did. Lorena remembered what it was like to hold a gun that close to someone's head. She knew the electricity, the guilt, and the anger. She knew that wild look in Ron's eyes, as she had once held it herself, but one profound difference between them remained: her arm didn't tremble.

Whether it was his white-knuckled grip on the gun or the sheer weight of it in his hand at that moment, no one would ever know. Lorena took a long, final drag of her cigarette and then ground the butt into a nearby ashtray. Just as she predicted, Ron lowered the gun and removed his garrison cap from his head. His dejected expression, which also held a hint of exasperation, made her chest tighten painfully. His hair fell limp across his forehead, which glistened with sweat.

"Have the MPs take care of this piece of shit," he said.

The men watched him walk away before hoisting the bastard to his feet. Lorena took Ron's hand in hers and squeezed. She led him upstairs and into his bedroom where she began to pour two glasses of whiskey, the best she could find. Ron sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing at his hand where a smear of blood had dried brown against his tan skin.

"I feel like a failure," he said, just above a whisper.

"Why? For not shooting a man point blank while looking into his eyes? You shouldn't feel like a failure for that. It isn't something to be proud of or celebrate. Men you've killed in the field, that's different. You can't remember all of them, but you would have carried the memory of that man's blood on your face and his brains on the wall for the rest of your life. And maybe you would have seen Grant's bloodied face right alongside of it, flashing back to back, but only to justify your actions. It's exhausting to walk through life that way. I would never want that for you."

Ron drained the glass and hissed at the burn at the back of his throat. "Do you want to know?"

"Know what?" she said, sipping the liquor.

"If the stories are true?"

Lorena smiled. Even in a dark moment, his spirits were lifted by the look on her face; the way her lips, a unique shade of reddish pink, curled in the corners, creating dimples in her cheeks. "No. I know who you are. That's all that matters to me."

He stood, crossed the room, and wrapped his arms around her waist. For the rest of the night, there were no words between them. There was only the sound of their love as they admired each other's souls in the dark.

* * *

_My dearest Lorena, _

_They tell me that I have been gone from the world for months now and, I must admit, I find this new place strange. There is an electricity in the air, a tangible current that seems to make people uneasy. It makes it difficult to gain my bearings and rejoin the world of the living... Despite the excellent treatment I have received in this hospital, I am fighting to get out. I know that Father is gone, but that you are well, if the papers they have given me are any indication, and I am anxious to see your brilliant face again. I miss you, dear sister, and love you with all of my heart._

_Meet you in Boston,  
Lorenzo_

She clutched the letter close to her chest as the tears spilt from her eyes.

Alive! Her brother was alive. _For somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something good... _


	18. A Beautiful Mess

**A/N: **Here it is: the final chapter. As for the hiatus that I unintentionally put this story on, I am so sorry. After finally graduating college, I was able to give this the attention it needed in order to give you all a (hopefully) worthy ending. Thank you everyone who has read and an extra special thanks to those that reviewed.

Inspired by Jason Mraz, Billie Holiday, and everyone who has taken the time.

* * *

**XVIII. A Beautiful Mess**

_well, i guess this just suggests  
__that this is just what happiness is__  
_

September 1976, New York

Lorena Carlyle sat behind a table in the middle of a crowded bookstore on the Upper East Side, her scarred and aging hands working overtime. Women, both young and old, placed books in front of her to autograph, showering her with compliments as her pen, a silver instrument that was now considered an antique, danced across the dedication page. She gave her trademark half-smile, thanked them, and watched as they hurried to the cashier. In her youth, Lorena never imagined that, at fifty-six, she would still be working, but there she was: being hailed a voice for battered women and a shining star of the second wave. And as she stared down at the cover of her novel, an image of a bruised red apple with the title _Strange Fruit_ printed in bold lettering across the top, she still couldn't believe it.

She had started writing it in '45, before the war had even ended. It had begun as something to do while she sunbathed in the Austrian summer air and continued as a project that she returned to throughout her life as she traveled and wrote for magazines and newspapers across the country. As she got older, Lorena focused on her growing stack of paper more and more. Plenty of times, she had wanted to give in altogether, finding it almost too difficult to relive her most painful memories after decades of never even thinking the name Parker Hollis. _Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh. Then the sudden smell of burning flesh. _But as she wrote, she felt her scars fading further into her past and a new power washed over her.

Lorena flexed her fingers quickly, trying to fight through the arthritis that had settled in her hands after years of use. At that moment, she felt her age and sighed at the long line of twentysomethings with flared jeans and feathered hair. In their eyes, though, she could see the way she once was; before marriage, before the war, before children. She smiled and waved one of them forward.

Then, just before she asked the girl her name, Lorena looked at the man in the back of the room. He was stoic and handsome, wearing a class-A uniform and a silver oak leaf pinned to his collar. He winked at her and gave her the smile she had always loved.

The girl in front of her turned around to see what had made the authoress blush. "Is that your husband?" she asked, sliding the book onto the table.

"No," Lorena said, "my fiancé."

And, just like that, she felt as though it was 1945 again and Lorena Carlyle was on top of the world.

* * *

June 1945, Austria

Ron watched from the end of bed as Lorena read his letter through a veil of steam that seemed to rise off of his cheeks. He was enraged and utterly bitter... until Lorena started to laugh. She doubled over in amusement, her giggles bouncing off of the dark walls and reverberating in Ron's ears. He had moved from angry to frustrated and confused.

"What's so funny about this? That woman is taking everything, Lorena. Everything! Do have any clue how much all that junk was worth. I sent her a fucking fortune and all I get is some fucking letter about how we were never married because that prick of a husband of hers isn't dead. Now they're some big happy family and are sitting pretty on a pile of cash that came from all of my hard work. Does she think it was easy getting all that crap to her? Well, it wasn't! It was fucking painful. Why are you still laughing?!"

Lorena wiped the moisture from her cheeks and shook her head, smiling and leaning back against the dresser. "Because you aren't married! You never have been. I find that incredibly funny. Just think of all the time we wasted not being together because we thought you were. It's hilarious."

"No, it's not. How are you not pissed?"

"I don't know. I'm just... not."

Ron stared up at her incredulously. Who was this woman and what had she done with his Lorena? But the more she smiled, the more Ron started to get it. He could see the irony, the farcical elements of the situation. He, too, began laughing and let his head fall into his hands.

"Well, Ron, there's one good that has come from this," Lorena said, folding the letter and slipping it back into its envelope.

"Yeah, we don't have to deal with my divorce."

"Yes, there is that, but I meant something else."

"What?" Ron asked.

"It's one less commandment that we've broken," Lorena said, shrugging her shoulders.

Ron opened his mouth to speak, but shut it again. He stood and crossed the room. Taking her in his arms, he pressed his face to her shoulder and inhaled. He could smell the freedom on her skin and sense the future in his bones. In that moment, neither of them had any concern about what would happen in the next minute, the next day, the next month, or the next year. In that moment, things were just fine.

The next day, though, all hell broke loose on Ron once again. Private More, a Toccoa man who had been amongst the small group of men to enter the Eagle's Nest with him, stood before him. He swore that he was not in possession of a very important artifact: Hitler's personal photo albums. Ron knew it was bullshit.

"So you looked at them, but you didn't take them?" Ron asked in a raised voice.

Who wouldn't have taken those pictures? Ron would have done it faster than Nixon would have swiped a bottle of good scotch.

"I'll be watching you," he said, signifying an end to the discussion. "You better not be lying to me."

As he watched More leave, he knew the private had a smirk on his face. He also knew that whatever Sgt. Talbert had to say wasn't going to put him in a better mood. Ron leaned back hard against the desk and folded his arms across his chest. It was one of those moments where Lorena would have told him to quit sulking like a child, but lucky for Ron, she wasn't there to see it.

"Sir, if it's not gonna put you in too much of a bind, I'd like to resign as company First Sergeant. If I had my choice, I miss being back amongst the men. I'd be happy to go to Staff Sergeant, whichever platoon you wanna put me in," Talbert said, hoping to sound as sympathetic as he possibly could to his CO.

Ron knew that Talbert had been miserable as First Sergeant, but he never imagined that he would seek demotion. The request to go backwards seemed almost un-American, unpatriotic. The noncom searched his face for a reaction and found only exasperation and fatigue.

"Well," Ron began with a sigh, "I guess you've earned the right to demote yourself. You want to take over Sergeant Grant's platoon?"

"That would do fine, sir," Talbert said, a hint of emotion in his voice.

"Alright, report to Lieutenant Peacock. Let me know if he gives you any trouble," Ron said before saluting and dismissing the new Staff Sergeant.

Just before he reached the door, Talbert turned on his heel. "Oh, sir, did you make your decision yet?"

"Yeah, I did," Ron answered.

Talbert nodded and exited the room, leaving Ron alone with his thoughts. He chewed on his bottom lip and stared off into the empty space of his office for what felt like an eternity. Sure, he had made a decision, but he hadn't broken the news to Lorena just yet. It was obvious that they were well past the stage in their relationship where they could be open with their – dare he say it – feelings, yet Ron couldn't bring himself to tell her that she was one of the main reasons he had decided to stay in the Army. Perhaps it was because he wanted to retain some amount of his manhood or because he knew that, ultimately, Lorena wouldn't make a big deal out of it. Other women would sigh and swoon over such a declaration, but not Lorena. No, she would look at him with her dark eyes and smirk. She would fucking smirk at him as he poured his heart and soul out to her. Then she'd kiss him and, suddenly, nothing else in the world would matter. It would all give way to her lips on his and her body pressed against him in all the right places. Ron knew all of that for a fact, which was why he loved her as much as he did.

In the end, he explained his decision to Lorena the same way he had explained it to Winters: he was staying for the men. They needed someone to help them post-war, to get them through it all. Lorena, of course, knew damn well that Ron Speirs was born to be a soldier. He had told her so himself. She realized that if he had chosen to return to the States – to possibly miss out on Tokyo – she would have called for a psychological evaluation.

"Besides," he added, "I'd rather die than go that long without making love to you."

Just as Ron had anticipated, Lorena smirked at his passionate confession. "That's more like it," she said in a sultry tone as she wrapped her slender arms around his neck and pulled herself close.

Even in the most unpredictable relationship, there remained a thread of predictability... and it was beautiful.

* * *

_and don't mind my nerve  
__you can call it fiction  
__but i like being submerged in your contradictions, dear__  
_

* * *

April 1951, Korea

Lorena was considered a veteran amongst the other war correspondents, both in the profession and in the field. Like all of the other reporters, she held the honorary rank of captain – in case of capture, they were told, so they would be treated as officers, not spies – but she carried it with the knowledge that she had earned it. She knew who to go to when she needed supplies and she treated the soldiers like comrades, not subjects. And she knew better than to pass judgment when she found herself attending an impromptu wedding between a young journalist and an enlisted man.

"This is ridiculous," said Betty O'Connor, a blonde from Los Angeles. "How could she even think about marriage at a time like this?"

"Well, according to most sociologists, that's the only thing single women think about. You went to a co-ed college, didn't you? You must have noticed more than a few of your peers marrying," Lorena countered.

"Of course I did, but that was college! I just don't understand how she could fall in love with a man with a war going on, a war she's supposed to be writing about, by the way," Betty said indignantly.

"Have you ever been in love, Betty?"

"Not really. Why?"

Lorena smiled and wiped a bead of sweat from her brow. Even in her summer uniform, the Korean sun was unbearably hot on her New England skin. "Because if you had, you would know how easy it is to completely disregard everything around you. War, natural disaster, pain; it all fades away in the moment. Everything, but him."

A hush fell over the small crowd as the bride, beaming and glowing like only a bride can, made her way up the makeshift aisle on the arm of Captain Ronald Speirs, who had volunteered to escort her. Commander of a rifle squad, Speirs' presence demanded a certain level of respect and fear, even amongst the correspondents. The rumors that had followed him throughout Europe somehow managed to find him in Korea as well, causing Lorena to laugh uproariously at his expense. When they had first arrived, the others had thought she was suicidal. _The man runs head first into gunfire and you think he's funny? Are you insane?_ Then they caught a glimpse of the thick platinum band that hung from Speirs' dog tags and the diamond-encrusted twin that dangled from Lorena's neck. They were lovers.

Ron and Lorena locked eyes as the couple recited their vows. They knew that neither of them would speak those words again – once had been enough, at least for Lorena – but, as they listened and gazed at each other from across the crowd, they knew there was no need.

They were veterans; "'till death do us part," was a given.

* * *

_there's no shame in being crazy  
__depending on how you take these  
__words i'm paraphrasing this relationship we're staging__  
_

* * *

July 1945, Austria

Lewis Nixon had been sober for three days. When he met Lorena on the balcony one balmy evening, he figured that it had been long enough.

The moon rose high above the mountains, basking the landscape in its soft light. The reflection danced on the lake's surface, just a glowing orb shimmering across the dark abyss. The fresh scent of evergreens surrounded them and mixed with the whiskey and the Reisling. As the two of them stood there, in their starched dress uniforms, they were both taken back to simpler times when – as children of businessmen – they were more concerned with club gossip than their own mortality.

"I thought you were quitting," she said, taking two Lucky Strikes out of their pack.

"I'm starting to think that when I came to that decision I was having some sort of an emotional breakdown. Why put myself through that hell while I'm surrounded by such beauty? I'll stop drinking when we get to Tokyo."

Lorena cast him a sideways glance. "And miss out on authentic sake?"

There was a moment of silence. "You're right. Oh, fuck it, I'll quit eventually. Dick's going to work for me after this whole thing is over, so I'm sure I'll get sick of his disapproving looks every time I come in with a hangover."

"He finally came around, huh?" she asked, taking a long drag of her cigarette.

"Yeah. Finally realized that he'd die without me. So, what are you doing after this? And if you say, 'having dinner,' I'll jump off this building," Nixon teased.

"I'm going to Boston," she answered. "I'm going to see my brother."

Just her brother, she thought. She refused to allow the _idea_ of her father's headstone even cross her mind. Of course, once she was there amongst the trees and the cobblestone and the brick without the sound of his voice, Lorena knew that she would feel compelled to go to him. She knew that she would conjure up the courage to take that harrowing trip to Mount Auburn Cemetery where Charles G. Carlyle rested in the family plot next to his wife and parents. Ron had already insisted on going with her, but her goodbye to her father was something they both knew she had to do on her own. Although they had both crossed lines of vulnerability, Lorena preferred to keep a certain distance between them as an act of self-preservation.

"That's good, Lorena. I'm glad," Nixon said, reaching out and touching her hand in what Lorena considered an uncharacteristically tender manner.

Nixon had always felt something for Lorena. It was strictly platonic, but everything about her made him feel as though he were home. Yet, underneath his fingers, Lorena's muscles tensed. Her breath caught in her throat for just a second, then escaped her in a sigh. She turned her face away, ashamed by her reaction. Nixon took his hand away and looked at her with a curious expression.

"I thought you were cured," he said, swirling the scotch in his glass.

"I'll never be cured, Lewis," she answered, staring forward across the landscape, her gaze not really focusing on anything. "Only patched up well."

* * *

_and what a beautiful mess this is  
__it's like picking up trash in dresses__  
_

* * *

October 1943, Atlanta

Autumn had always been Lorena's favorite season. It was a time for hollow pumpkins and cozy sweaters, for colorful trees and caramel apples. It transformed the city of Boston into a wonderland of rich, warm colors and chilly weather. Atlanta, she found, was even more beautiful than her hometown and she spent most of her time outdoors from September to November.

But that particular afternoon, Lorena did not feel joyful. A bitter wind blew in from the north, numbing her body to match her emotional state. Bundled up in her red wool coat, Lorena stalked past the gray headstones, searching for one name.

There was no plot for the Hollis family. Parker's father, Rafe Hollis, had been the first one to make something of himself. Before him, the Hollis family was nothing more than "po' white trash," as Southerners were apt to describe them. True, many of their ancestors had fought in the Civil War against the Yankees, but before the war, they were farmers. They were too poor to own slaves, too poor to plant cotton. At one point in their history, they were even too poor to vote. But the Hollis family had a different stigma on their name now: abusers. And since Parker was an only child, Lorena had ended any chance for redemption.

Poinsettias had been laid in front of Parker's grave, done by his mother, no doubt. Lorena stared down at the vibrant bouquet and thought about the fitting choice of floral arrangement. Rage filled her and she suddenly imagined smashing the poisonous plant into little pieces. The cuts on her neck were still pink and just beginning to scar. Her cracked rib was almost healed and the bruising beneath her eyes, where her nose had been broken, had faded. She had not hidden the physical evidence as she once had, though. No, Lorena began to wear the violence of her married years like battle scars. They were not signs of her weakness. They were signs of her strength. She had endured mental abuse, beatings, rape, internal death... and she found justice.

Lorena knelt in front of the headstone and placed her fist on the ground. "One day, I'm going to forget you. Everyone is going to forget you, but no one is going to forget what you did to me. Everyone will know just the sort of man you really are, Parker Hollis, and, with any luck, they will hate you just as much as I do."

In her book, those words came out of the heroine's mouth right before she fired the bullet into her husband's chest. He heard the words that Lorena never got the chance to say. Just as he was a villain in reality, he was a villain in fiction, and she was the heroine that she had always wanted to be.

* * *

_and the kind and courteous is a life i've heard  
__but it's nice to say we've played in the dirt__  
_

* * *

November 1945, Boston

As the car pulled into the driveway of Lorena's childhood home, Ron's palms began to sweat. It was bad enough her brother had sent a 1946 Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith to pick them up from the airport, but the sheer size and grandeur of the house made him feel just as insignificant as he once did when they went to Paris together. The lawn was covered in a sea of fallen leaves from the maple trees and the columns were a bright, freshly-painted white. He counted twelve windows just on the front of the house and he could see that it extended much further back.

"Jesus Christ, you grew up here?"

"Yes, and there's a maid. Don't be too alarmed."

Lorena always marveled at Ron's love and hatred for her old life. She knew that before he met her, he mocked her way of living. He had purposely looked down on women like her: women with Ivy League educations and Chanel in their closets. He went out of his way to avoid those women, to sneer at them as they walked by him as he worked, struggling to make a living during the Depression. But Lorena's presence in his life had changed his way of thinking. He no longer looked at the bulk of those society women as brainless or cruel. Suddenly, he began to wonder if they, like Lorena, were acting; going through their lives with dark secrets and stifled emotions, hoping that no one would notice. Before Lorena, Ron had been too bitter and angry to care about these women, but the moment that he saw her – a creature wandering through the woods, trying to mask its wounds – a flip switched within him. There was a vulnerability that lingered just beneath the surface of her well-groomed exterior. Ron would always hate the way he felt in the world Lorena was born into, but he would always love the way he felt beside her in it.

The driver glared at Ron as he opened and closed his own car door. He straightened the dark jacket of his class A uniform and his garrison cap, then took Lorena's gloved hand. Ron forced himself to keep his head forward and remain strong for his fiancée, who trembled with excitement.

Lorena hadn't seen her brother in over three years. He had been shipped off to Italy almost immediately after her trial, sent to translate and assist the combat medics as much as possible. He had volunteered for service, unlike many others in the same position as Lorenzo Carlyle, but he had a reputation to uphold and a family name to revive. When Ron heard this, he instantly respected the man who would always be his almost brother-in-law.

A maid, an elderly woman, answered the door almost immediately after Lorena rang the bell. Her wrinkled face broke into a bright, broad smile as soon as she saw the Carlyle girl, all grown up and on the arm of a soldier.

"Miss Carlyle! Look at you! You're even lovelier than the last time I saw you!" she beamed.

"Mildred! Oh, a familiar face!" she said as she stepped forward to embrace the woman.

Mildred's eyes went wide as Lorena's thin arms encircled her neck. Apparently, Ron noted mentally, Lorena had never been one for physical affection.

"Mildred, may I introduce you to Captain Ronald Speirs, 101st Airborne," she said as Ron stepped forward to shake the maid's hand.

"Very nice to meet you, dear," she said, and then turned to Lorena. "He's much better than the last one."

"Infinitely better," Lorena nodded in agreement. "Now, where is that brother of mine?"

"Oh, where is my head? Come in! He's in the sitting room, though I don't think I've seen him sit all day."

Lorena took Ron's hand and flashed him an excited smile. They removed their coats and gloves, and then proceeded to follow Mildred through the foyer. As they rounded the corner into the sitting room, Ron saw a man quickly rise to his feet from a chaise longue near the fireplace. When they fully entered the room, Lorena froze. Ron looked at her, then quickly to the man, who had moved to stand in the middle of the large room. He was tall with the same dark, bold features that Lorena possessed on a sun-tanned face. He, too, had a war-battered look to him, one that Ron recognized instantly.

"Is it really you?" Lorena whispered.

As the man nodded, she broke into a run and threw her arms around him, sobbing into his shoulder. He clasped her tightly and squeezed his eyes shut so the tears could not escape him. She touched his face and kissed his cheeks and laughed through a tidal wave of emotions that crashed over her. Her brother – her dear, dear brother – was alive. He was alive and healthy and safe. Lorena pulled herself close to him once more, pressing her cheek against his chest like a child, and held on.

Growing up, Lorena and Lorenzo had been close. As children, they would chase each other about the grounds; getting grass stains on their khakis in summer, jumping into piles of leaves in autumn, building forts in winter. As teenagers, after their mother died, they would secretly speak in Italian, trying to keep it alive and well in the house, just as Lilla Fanciullo wanted. Yet, there had been no opportunity to know each other as adults. They had spent years mourning their bond, each feeling as if they were bleeding inwardly from the sheer force of the snap that had occurred from their distance. It took all of Lorena's strength to force herself to loosen her grip on him.

"I missed you," she said. "I've missed you so much."

"Not as much as I've missed you. Now, let me get a good look at you, kid," he said.

Lorena stood back with a laugh as he folded his arms and mock-scrutinized her. "You're too skinny," he teased. "But you look so much like Mama."

"Do I?" she asked.

"Yeah, you do," he said, hugging her once more. Finally, he looked over at Ron and smiled. "Jesus Christ, we're rude! A couple years in the field and we've lost all sense of common decency."

The man crossed the room and extended a hand to Ron. _I guess firm handshakes run in the family._ "Lorenzo Carlyle, sir."

"Ron Speirs," he replied.

Lorena shook her head. "Lori, this is Ron, my fiancé."

Lorenzo's mouth fell open at the word _fiancé_. After Parker Hollis, he never imagined that his sister would want to be in a committed relationship again. He had taken much of the blame for what had happened to her. They had spoken on the phone countless times and he never took the lackluster tone in her voice seriously. A few times, she begged him to take her away from there and still he did nothing. _Lorenzo, please. I can't... I can't take it anymore. Kidnap me, just get me out of here._ He thought she meant Atlanta. He never imagined that she meant her home. She had briefly mentioned the new man in her life: his name, his rank, where they met. What Lorena did not describe – or really could not describe – was how she felt about him, which was obvious to Lorenzo in that moment. The expression on his young sister's face was something he had only seen in movies. Even in the days before the violence when Hollis was courting her, she never looked as joyful and contented. Still, Lorenzo looked at the man through the eyes of an older brother who had vowed to never allow another man to hurt his sister the way that Hollis had. He would never allow another man to break her. But, then again, neither would Lorena.

"Glad to meet you, brother. Welcome to the family."

* * *

_and what a beautiful mess this is  
__it's like taking a guess when the only answer is yes__  
_

* * *

August 1945, Austria

Lorena watched with a smile as the men played baseball in the golden, late afternoon sun. Bull was up the plate, his fat cigar situated firmly between his teeth.

Ron walked up behind her and leaned against the jeep.

"Who's winning?" he asked.

"I have no idea. I don't have much of a mind for sports. In case you haven't noticed, I'm much more of an indoor girl," she answered with a smile.

"Oh, believe me, I noticed."

Lorena turned back to watch, noting how far each of them had come; as soldiers, as men, and as human beings. They had jumped into unknown territory time and time again, been bombarded with blasts from above, and became witnesses to genocide. Not to mention, as Bill Guarnere would point out to her in later years, saddled with a homicidal journalist.

Yet, it was both her professional integrity and personal involvement that would have her maintain contact with the veterans of Easy Company for decades into the future. While writing on Southern spiritualism, Lorena spent time with Eugene in Louisiana, who told her countless stories about his grandmother. She often returned just to hear more about her and enjoy his wife's superb cooking. Lorena collected cigars on her various travels and sent them to Bull, who went into the earth-moving business in Arkansas after the war.

Webster became one of Lorena's top contacts in New York, especially after his move from the Saturday Evening Post to the Wall Street Journal. The two collaborated on several articles before he turned his attention to researching sharks. In 1961, Lorena paid for a massive search and rescue mission after he went out on the ocean alone and never returned. She would mourn her friend for the rest of her life.

Lipton became a glass-making executive, in charge of factories across the globe. One day, not long into his career, he took over the operations of LG Glass Company, allowing Lorenzo to begin teaching Italian at Radcliffe (his true passion, Lorena noted in a congratulatory letter to Lipton). He also had the Carlyle name etched into the entrance of the building, maintaining the origin of their family legacy for future generations.

Lorena would also remain close to Lewis Nixon and Dick Winters, writing them both long letters whenever she had the chance. Particularly while she and Ron were in Korea, as Lorena spoke fondly of Winters with the soldiers that he also happened to train and drank quality scotch with an officer who was a Yale alumni like Nixon. She attended their weddings and sent presents at the holidays. Winters even dragged himself into New York City to attend Lorena's book release party, a struggle for which she was eternally grateful.

The pair walked up to where Ron and Lorena were sitting and asked Ron to gather the men around. They looked relaxed—all of them—for the first time in God only knew how long. They gathered around in a circle around the officers, waiting for whatever news they had to deliver. At that point, even if it meant being shipped out to Tokyo, the men of Easy Company knew that it would be okay. Either way, they had each other.

"Listen up. Got some news," Dick began, squinting into the sunlight, "This morning, President Truman received an unconditional surrender from the Japanese. War's over."

Lorena smiled and she quickly looked to the faces to see shock and perhaps a strain of disbelief in their eyes. They were frozen until Dick gave a nod and they all headed towards the tents out on the field, back to their makeshift barracks to celebrate the end of their long journey. Ron stood beside her silently for a long moment before taking her hand in his and kissing it. Then he smiled at her—a tender smile, full of hope and promise and love—and she returned it. Then, almost out of nowhere, she placed her free hand at the nape of his neck and pulled him toward in a seering kiss. There, in a sunny field at the base of a picturesque European mountain, Lorena Carlyle broke all of her old rules. She pressed her lips to her lovers with no abandon. After all, if the war had taught her anything, it was that there was no room in a full life to for fear and, even in the darkest of times, one can always be saved by courage and love.

* * *

_and through timeless words and priceless pictures  
__we'll fly like birds, not of this earth  
__and tides they turn and hearts disfigure  
__but that's no concern when we're wounded together__  
_

* * *

February 1960, Berlin

Lilla looked up at her father, who tucked her pink blankets tight around her, and smiled. She was only five-years-old, but she already knew that, when she grew up, she was going to be a soldier.

Her father was a gun-toting soldier. He had already been in two wars and had worked as a liaison for the Russians in Potsdam right around the time she was born. Now, he was working in Spandau where the German government kept the Nazis and where her father kept them in line.

Her mother was a pen-wielding soldier. She had written about the wars that the men of the world had fought in and about the war that the women of the world faced every day. She fought for freedom and truth; things that were intangible, but important.

Lilla Carlyle-Speirs, with her ebony hair and striking, green eyes, had the fighting spirit inside of her. There was no doubt about that. The blood that ran through her veins was Scottish and Sicilian; if she had been even-tempered, Lorena and Ron would have worried about her. But from the first moment that Lorena felt her daughter move within her, she knew that her little girl would be a strong child. She would be smart, determined, passionate, and would survive the world and its turbulence. Ron, while sharing the same sentiments, still vowed that, despite the power she would possess (simply by being her mother's daughter), he would kill anyone that hurt her. As soon as the doctor placed Lilla in his arms, Ron knew that he would do anything for the tiny, soft, pink angel that stared up at him with his eyes. Anything for her, and anything for the woman who had just given birth to her.

"Daddy, tell me about you and Mama again. About how you met."

Ron tucked a loose curl behind Lilla's ear. "You've heard that story a million times. Aren't you tired of it?"

Ron would be the first to admit that fatherhood had both strengthened and softened him. He was still the man who had survived Normandy and Bastogne, who had shot men down on two continents, who could strike fear into the heart of any man. But he was also the keeper of the bedtime stories, the squasher of large insects, the detective of a missing sock. Ron held a conviction that Lorena had made him a better person, but Lilla had made him the best person he could have ever hoped to be.

"No, Daddy," she said with a toothy grin. "It's great. Mama said it's better than Cinderella."

"Oh, yeah?" he answered. "And why'd she say that?"

"Because Cinderella is a fairytale. Oh, and because Mama said that she would have been responsible enough to leave a calling card."

At this, Ron laughed, kissed Lilla on the forehead, and stood. "Goodnight, Lilla Anne."

"Goodnight, Daddy," she replied with a yawn before turning onto her side with a smile and quickly falling asleep.

Ron padded down the hall, barefoot, and carefully opened the door to the bedroom. Lorena was lying still on her back beneath the sheets, meaning to Ron that she wasn't quite sleeping, but she was on the verge. He pulled the blankets back on his side and slide into bed, propping himself on his elbow to get a better view of her.

"Did she give you trouble again?" she asked, not opening her eyes.

"No. She wanted to hear about us, though. What have you been telling her?"

"Nothing that isn't true. Why, how do you tell our little tale? That her mama was crazy and her daddy was a god?"

"You mean, her mama _is _crazy and her daddy _is_ a god."

Lorena chuckled. "You're delusional."

Suddenly, Ron leaned over and kissed her softly.

"What was that for?" she asked sleepily, opening her eyes just enough to see his silhouette in the darkness.

"Because I love you and you make me very happy," he said; his tone, serious.

Lorena opened her eyes wider. His face was unreadable in the darkness, but she could hear the sincerity in his voice and it comforted her. She stared at him, smiling. She smoothed his hair and caressed his cheek.

"I love you too."

And in those four words, Ron understood. He heard everything she couldn't say and she knew in the way his lips pressed against hers that he really had. His fingertips traced a scar that ran down her shoulder blade as he cradled her against his chest and her hands knotted in his graying hair. As they touched, the world went quiet and, suddenly, it was only them, just as they had always been: ruthless, invincible, and in love.

* * *

_but it's nice today  
__... oh, the wait was so worth it__  
_

**Fin. **


End file.
